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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555779">Fairy Rings and Necklaces</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetofthewillow/pseuds/planetofthewillow'>planetofthewillow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Others [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action/Adventure, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:54:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>63,590</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetofthewillow/pseuds/planetofthewillow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when an Arthur who lives in a world of fantasy, full of magic and alchemy and the mystic, finds himself switching places with "England" Arthur? What at first seems to be a strange, almost fun, shift in the universes quickly turns into a battle to return home before the magic ends.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>England/France (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Others [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738507</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Arthur’s robes glided across the stone steps as he marched towards his study, his cat familiar at his heels. He shifted the bundles of books, trying not to drop the ancient bottle tucked under his arm. His cat hissed at him as he moved, his voice resonating in Arthur’s head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What a terrible mistake! You know this, right? Oh why don’t you ever listen to me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I listen enough, Fen, but I really thought I could make it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And if you’re too late it makes a terrible impression, you know. It will not aid your research. And certainly not in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m friends with the man, Fen. I doubt being a couple minutes--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ten minutes! Ten minutes late. Impressions matter.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do not need your feline wisdom.” Arthur said. They had rushed up winding stone staircases, for his study was in the highest (and oldest) one in the college. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stopped at his door, now panting hard. He fumbled for his key, dangling at his neck, the wine bottle slipping uncomfortable down his other arm, its neck catching against one of the books. Arthur cursed his own foolishness then. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was only a lecture, and he could have left early. If he had left the professor’s dissertation only a few minutes, maybe even just five, he would have had time to grab the books and wine separately before his meeting. He could have even cast a spell on the wine to safely glide upwards ahead of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As it was, Arthur had stayed late. He was immersed in the young professor’s findings. Quantum Alchemy, he called it, a new way to optimize spells so that otherwise complex spells, the kind that takes decades to master, could be learned by any layman. It would change the common people’s lives. With this novel idea, one that Arthur hardly followed despite being a Master of Physical Magic, as per his certifications. He even lingered and asked for a copy of the bold young man’s thesis. The man’s familiar, for all magic professors had one, bristled its feathers. The man was foreign, with a strange, twanging accent Arthur had heard only a handful of times before. His blond hair was swept to one side, exposing his beaming face and wire-framed spectacles. The young professor, despite pecking by his bird familiar, handed a copy over to Arthur.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur hastily cast a quick gliding spell on the papers, sending them up to his study. Now, before his door, he wrangled his key forwards and shoved the door open. Dust floated in sunlight over his desk, illuminating the oak with gold and honey. He breathed in the air of ancient books, letting his burdens tumble on to one of the three couches in his study. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You look like you could use some more exercise, Professor.” A cool voice interrupted his thoughts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur looked up, his heart thumping. “Oh, oh I do beg your pardon. The new professor had such marvelous ideas, I’m sure you’ve heard? Yes, these right here.” Arthur pointed towards a floating stack of papers held together with a ring of wire. Arthur flicked his fingers across his thumb, as though brushing off unseen lint, and the spell dispersed. The papers landed softly on his massively cluttered desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On one of his couches, his favourite one with the soft cushions and the red corduroy backs, lounged Professor Francis Bonnefoy. Francis smiled at him warmly, dressed in his ever elegant, deep blue robes. He still had a flaxen stubble cradling his chin, but his hair was longer than Arthur remembered it to be. The end of his queue must have reached to his shoulder blades when it wasn’t tossed over his shoulder. Arthur began to apologize for his tardiness once more, moving items on his desk to lay out the books.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I heard a word or two he had to say. Don’t worry. I only just arrived.” Francis’ pale eyes slid towards the bottle of wine, dangerously close to falling off the couch. He murmured under his breath, and the wine acquiesced, floating towards his outstretched palm. He glanced at the label once it landed “My, they let you have this. Even after last time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me have it? That’s assuming far too much, Francis.” Arthur finally slumped against his desk chair, letting Fen hop on to his lap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis stood and rummaged for a pair of wine glasses. “Let me guess, you swiped it from the kitchen maid in exchange for bewitching the dough to roll itself out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur shook his head as Fen lifted his, pink nose sniffing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think we can get it out of him this time?” Fen asked softly, a deep purr only Arthur could hear. Arthur only shrugged in response. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once the wine had been poured and Francis settled himself on the other side of the desk, Arthur took a deep breath and took a chance. “Francis, will you help me? With the grant? The new research?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which one?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I only have one now, thank you very much, and it’s the main one. The big one. Your magic and mine are so different, and I think it’s having that different, well, flavor is what will cut it. I think this way we can get to an answer. The big answer to the big question.” Arthur leaned in, for dramatic affect, but the wine was already starting to haze vision. He tried to focus. “Why is there magic at all?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis took a long drink and stared into the crimson depths. “No wonder, the Masters would never allow you to do something so bold. So you must come to me, the vagabond.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The Masters you speak of made this huge taboo.” Arthur said, “Which, unless they know something, means that there is something to be learned.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Asking to research something like that is going to raise some eyebrows with the fundamentalists. It’s like asking why is there a world at all? Why is there sea and storm and wind?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But we have answers for that! We know the Clockwork theory. We know that wind is due to pressure. We know that each creature has evolved from a past one. We know all this. What I don’t know is why there’s magic in it all. Why we have different magic from you. It’s like having language, but far more mysterious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your next question is why I’m so good at magic, even though I do not have a familiar of my own?” Francis said, eyeing Fen. Fen blinked his large amber eyes in response. “I can ask similar questions. Why do you study magic so fiercely? Why are you who you are? Why are you Brit and I’m Gallic? Why won’t you sleep with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur flushed a red as deep as the wine. “I refuse to give that a response. Please, stop skirting around the question and tell me: will you help me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve asked me how many times in how many years?” Francis said, raising his glass. “I suppose it’s worth a shot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur smiled. Fen nuzzled into his abdomen. “Well, first thing’s complete.” He mumbled wordlessly. Arthur reached his own glass out, clinking their glasses together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the glass made contact with the other, an electric bolt of pain exploded in Arthur’s arm, racing up his shoulder, his neck, and to his head. His fingers let go, the glass slipping through and crashing on his desk. Wine spilled out and stained the books. Arthur grasped at his head, as if squeezing the pain out. His fingers dug into his blond scalp, his vision swimming in and out of focus. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Arthur? Arthur!” Francis called out, a million miles away. Arthur’s forehead met the wood of his desk, his vision flashing until it went dark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a few, horrifying moments, Arthur thought he was lost at sea. When he was a boy, he remembered suddenly, he had gone to the Channel and taken a ferry boat. His father, magic-less, worked many odd jobs and fishing in ports happened to be one of them. Arthur remembered his father’s broad face, one he had not thought of in many years. He remembered the ruddiness of his cheeks from working at the ports. Arthur had been playing by the docks, chasing seagulls, trying to make little tidal waves and failing. Arthur had stood at the very end when he thought he saw something in the water. He leaned closer and closer… He remembered that face again when Arthur’s head broke the surface of the water, his mouth open in an empty scream. The face came close and large arms embraced him. He was wet and cold and frightened and half-drowned, but had made it now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, Arthur kept swimming through this mysterious, infinite ocean, kept waiting to see that face. But he felt himself drift farther… and farther… Deep, azure blues. Darkness punctuated by only one pinprick of light. Arthur latched on to that, forcing himself to swim and swim and swim--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He woke with a gasp, yanking his head back and rocking back dangerously. The chair he had was not stable and shifted back. Far too easily, he thought, but he was only just breaking through and gulping air. A faulty chair was the least of his concerns.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He saw Francis’ face before him, coming into focus. Arthur reached out, his fingers brushing against Francis’ shirt, which was rough and grainy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Francis--what happened?” He managed to say, his vision still hazy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You got drunk is what happened!” A brash, familiar voice boomed to Arthur’s left. Arthur rubbed his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I only had one drink, thank you very much, where is--” Arthur’s vision finally cleared, the last dregs of the water resolving like a dream. Arthur looked around him, seeing faces he did not know aside from Francis, who sat directly in front of him. He was no longer in the velvet blue robes, but wearing a strange, thin-looking shirt and light blue breeches. “What in the world happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur looked around, wondering why there were so many people around, and, more importantly, where was he? He was clearly no longer in his study. The room was too well-lit and spacious. It did not smell of his books, but of spilled wine and other unknown scents. Arthur reached for his lap, grasping for Fen but meeting only empty air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fen?” He asked weakly, looking down at himself. He found he, too, was no longer in his favorite robes. Despite this, his hand hovered over empty air. Of all the strange things, missing Fen was the worst. He felt as though his own heart had been emptied from his chest and hidden away from him. He felt tears prickle in his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fen--I don’t know what you’re talking about but you ate shit, dude.” The brazen voice Arthur now recognized as the young, foreign professor’s spoke again. Arthur turned to find the same man, but not quite. His glasses were different. “Are you ok?” He asked, smiling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m not quite well, it’s a trifle odd…” Arthur managed to say, wrenching his gaze back to Francis, avoiding all the other new faces who watched him with mixed concern and amusement. Francis seemed surprised to find Arthur’s attention landing back on him. “Francis, my dear, please tell me what the bloody hell happened?” He grasped Francis’ hands, but the man who was and was not Francis seemed to spring back at the touch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I--I’m sorry.” Arthur let go, watching as Francis’ concern turned to outright worry. If Arthur was here, and Francis looked the exact same, he had to be the same man, right? “Ah, well, what just happened? Let’s piece the query together, shall we?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, well,” Francis began, still looking at Arthur as though he were a ghost. He very well could be, Arthur reasoned, still trying to reach for a phantom Fen. However, Arthur was an erudite, and a Master of the Physical at that. These things were real. He could see, hear, smell, and touch them. Therefore, there was something to understand. He swallowed his fear, even for a moment, and reminded himself of who he was. Repeating his title, wondering if it meant anything in this world. Francis had stopped speaking, and the young man had taken over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We were really just shooting the shit, do you remember that? We were talking about something--” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“New infrastructure--” Another voice said, deep and gruff.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah whatever, and then we popped out the wine and tried to ease things up. It’s your birthday, after all. Sucks we had a meeting, though. Do you remember any of that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My birthday?” Arthur mused. His birthday was today? He’d been so busy with his thesis he’d trampled right over the date.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, and then you started to get real crazy. We toasted you, I had a great toast--” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was not that great.” Another voice, a softer one, said from behind the young man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You mostly talked about yourself.” The first strange voice said again. It belonged to a stocky man sitting just behind Francis, his arms stiffly crossed. He was watching Arthur with abject curiosity that made Arthur feel uncomfortably like a specimen under a microscope. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok, whatever, but--but the point is you went raise your glass, met with Francis’, and slumped over. We honestly thought you were having a heart attack.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see, Pr--Jones.” Arthur said mildly, looking at an assortment of ten or more people all around him. Were these his friends? Had Arthur somehow slipped into someone else’s body? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jones?” The man said, his eyebrows raised. He wore the same sort of shirt that Francis did, but his had a ghoulish depiction of an open hand with a mouth on its palm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that not your name?” Arthur tried. He remembered the floating thesis he had magicked into the air, ALFRED F JONES stamped across the top. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it is my name. My last name. You just never call me Jones. You usually call me Alfred when you’re not calling me idiot or bastard.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I would call you such things?” Arthur said, then quickly realised his mistake. He looked down at his hands, now outstretched against the table. His upper arms were bare. “Well, of course I would! I’m sorry, you all, I think maybe the wine got to my head. You know, they say the inclusions in there cause systemic reactions in some people…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe you can’t hold your drink.” Francis said back, looking still strange and holding a distance from him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur nodded, smiling as if he understood the hoke, wondering how to act. They all continued to regard him oddly. Arthur felt distinctly that he was up against an insurmountable challenge, and the fear of being swept by the ocean threatened him once more. He took deep, slow breaths, looking around him, absorbing what he could. In his mind, he began to construct a list of what he knew. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew this: He was not at the Master’s Institute. He was no longer in his study. In fact, he had no idea if he was still in the Brits. Next, he knew some of these people by face, and they seemed to share the same names as the ones he really did know. He also knew that was alive, and that meant that Fen was alive, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You bloody idiot, where the hell am I? What the hell are you wearing? What did you do to me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arthur had gasped awake, staring at Francis who was wearing an incredibly ridiculous outfit. To add to that, the frog was in the middle of a strange room, crowded with books. It was illuminated by lanterns hung on the stone walls and rogue sunbeams pouring through stained-glass windows. It was beautiful, but that was besides the point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why are you grinning like that?” Arthur rubbed his face, finding it sticky with wine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Francis was grinning at him, showing off a gold tooth Arthur did not remember him having.  He shook his head, as if in disbelief. “It worked!” He said quietly. “It really worked!”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Adjusting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Arthur who was no longer a Master of the Physical, who had lost his familiar, and who was completely out of his depth now walked out of the massive, blank-faced building. He stood at the entrance, Francis behind him still looking wary, and marveled at its size. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you telling me we were at the top of this tower?” Arthur asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur, yes, you walked in with us. You always get vertigo in elevators.” Francis said, considering, “But, despite that, you never take the stairs. You’re acting very, very strange.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur nodded, deep in thought, standing in the bright sun. His arms felt exposed in the languid breeze. He gathered his courage, then, and made a decision. He could almost hear Fen reproaching him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis, you have always been my closest confidant. So I must tell you something. You may not believe me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you doing drugs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drugs? No, no. I dabble here and there, but that is besides the point. What I want to tell you is that the me you’re seeing is not the me that I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you certain you’re not back into </span>
  <em>
    <span>that thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> again?” Francis lit a rolled parchment of tobacco, slimmer than anything Arthur knew, and raised it to his lips. His fingers trembled, causing the wisps of smoke to stagger in their ascent. He sat down on a bench, watching as Arthur paced before him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven't a clue what you're referring to. Let me try and explain this... You see, one moment I’m in my world. The next, I’m here. This is all so foreign and yet so not foreign to me. I am not the Arthur you know. I am a different Arthur from a different world, one that seems very different from here.” Arthur paused, seeing the look of distress on Francis’ features turn to wariness. “Let me try another approach, perhaps, I did this with my students.” Arthur tried not to think about his poor students whose tests will inevitably go ungraded. “Imagine what I’m telling you is absolutely true. You don’t even have to really, really believe me. Just pretend, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis nodded slowly, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nostrils. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So say I am not the Arthur you know. I’m a stranger in Arthur’s body. What am I to you? Who is this Arthur to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis rolled his eyes. “Mean, for one thing. You insult me consistently and call me cruel names. However, you are also my friend. We have known each other for a long long time. We grew up together, back when the world was much younger than it is now. So yes, we know each other very well Arthur-not-Arthur.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we…?” Arthur raised his eyebrows, pointing at himself then at Francis. The sun was getting low and glinting sharply against the glass of the building. “Are we, you know, very close? Aside from the meanness on my end, and for that I do apologize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur?” Francis stood up, spreading his arms out. “Is this an incredibly complicated attempt at, how you say, getting into my pants? You don’t have to try so hard with some sort of scheme.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Martyrs, please no.” Arthur felt his cheeks heat and flush. “Just like the Francis I know. No, that is not my goal.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis shrugged, “Some things never change. I am willing, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I don’t think I am. Now, what can I do to make you believe our little hypothetical is true?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur, you have not acted like this for a long time. The way you speak is so different and bizarre,  I have no choice to believe you.” Francis began to lead Arthur down the street, gently nudging him by the elbow. Arthur began to move reluctantly, casting glances behind him at the building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, it’s odd. I would think…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think--What in the world?” Arthur started, grabbing at his coarse breeches. Something had begun buzzing uncomfortably at his hip, pulsating and urgent. Arthur wondered if the other Arthur carried bees around for fun. His hand landed on a slim, smooth device emitting sharp light. A name was inscribed at the thought. Arthur stared in confusion, glancing at Francis for help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you read that?” Francis asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not illiterate. Who is this? Secretary?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should answer.” Francis said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur furrowed his brows. Francis reached forwards, “You talk into it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh like a telephone? But it’s so small!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis pressed his thumb to a green circle, motioning for Arthur to speak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, hullo?” Arthur queried as politely as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur, you promised me you’d get the papers sent over by 5 pm.” A woman’s sharp voice cut through the air. Arthur refrained from pulling the device away from his head. What a marvelous contraption! He’d have to take it apart, perhaps, see what made it go. He doubted it was the same gears and kinks that the telephones back home had. A sharp stab of longing for Fen rang through him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did, did I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be coy. Deadline’s in a week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will be done before then, I promise dearie. Unfortunately I was caught up in a conference with some acquaintances, time goes so fast when you’re with friends doesn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuses. Whatever, just get it to me on time for once, Kirkland.” The line beeped and went dead. He wondered what papers the other Arthur was working on. Arthur looked at the now blank screen, seeing his reflection in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This Arthur looked much like he did. Same color of hair, tussled in loose bangs over his forehead, same dark eyebrows, same green eyes. Except, Arthur examined closer, this Arthur seemed warier. More tired. Light blue bruises hung under his eyes in sad half-moons. “I don’t look very alive,” He muttered. Arthur returned the device to his pocket. “Now, where do I live?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis seemed to have been considering something, his lips slightly parted. He had snuffed out the tobacco while Arthur talked on the phone. “You know, I don’t think I am the best source for your solution. We need someone with more scientific knowledge and resources.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Science? Alchemic Science?” Arthur ventured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alchemy doesn’t exist here, except in media and history.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis continued to lead Arthur down crowded streets. People in similar clothing milled past them, ignoring Arthur and Francis as they walked along, Francis’ hand still on Arthur’s elbow. Delightful smells of food rose from some of the buildings, in particular one with outdoor seating. Arthur felt his stomach growl. He looked apologetically at Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll eat then I’ll take you back to the hotel. I’m only a room down from you. You have hotels, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Inns, hotels, whatever you call it depends on your coin.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis rolled his eyes in response, leading Arthur into one of the delicious smelling buildings. They found rattan chairs on the patio, hidden under an eave of twisting Dahlias.  A waitress came by to bring them water and menus. Once she left, Francis leaned forward on the table. He spoke softly, but no one seemed to look at either of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will call Ivan and Alfred tomorrow. Ivan will be harder to persuade, but Alfred will believe anything if you convince him enough.” Arthur nodded along, watching as the gold sunlight dappled his cheeks, flitting like scattered coins. This Francis spoke softer, his accent smoother. But his eyes were the same piercing blue. “We’ll go over to them tomorrow. Tonight you should rest. It must be tiresome to be so far from home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s such a rush, really, I hardly notice.” Arthur clenched his hand in a fist, hovering it just over his lap, an emptiness which Fen had always occupied. He glanced at the menu, a small leatherbound booklet with glossy pages. Pictures decorated the edges, depicting pastas and salads. “What do you recomend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you still have bad taste?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care much for food, if that’s what you mean.” Arthur flicked through the pages, eyeing the deserts hungrily. “I eat whatever the kitchen maids have handy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kitchen maids? Are you rich?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I work at an Institute. A college. I am a professor and master. Of magic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis sniffed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you do magic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I beg your pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you do a magic trick? For me? It might be something we can use to convince Ivan to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t usually use magic that much. Not complex magic. I could turn on candles and lamps. I am very good and working with physical things. Particularly metal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you do it now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” Arthur looked at an empty champagne flute at a neighboring table. Its owner was turned away, leaning her head on her palm and chatting with her tablemates. Arthur opened his hand, curled his fingers, and tried to feel for that thread of magic. He was met with emptiness. A dull resonance in the world. “I can’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You lost your magic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, magic is in that world, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So do you think our Arthur can do magic now? The original. Our original, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur would have slapped his forehead if the waitress had not come by, asking for their orders. She was dressed in trousers and a silk top, both unusual articles of clothing to wear. Even for a woman. Arthur let Francis order for him, still trying to probe the world for magic as Francis spoke. Once she left, with a promise of pasta, Arthur turned to Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could I have missed that? Of course your Arthur would be in my world. Of course we switched places.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you think you consumed him or something? Or the you in that world is now a lifeless puppet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are many unanswered questions. If your friends are truly men of the Natural world, then they must be able to help me. You are a master of ideas, Francis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis grinned, “I’m starting to like the new you more than I liked the old one. You are much nicer, for one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur wondered just how mean his other self was. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I really feel like I should wring your neck, you disgusting oaf.” Arthur hissed, the other Arthur, across the ocean. He now stood and paced in the confined study, tripping infrequently over the dangling robes. No wonder the damned things had gone out of fashion. Who in their right mind would wear a massive skirt all day? Arthur tried to ignore how Francis lounged in his, how he seemed to ooze sexuality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m telling you, Arthur,” he said, his accent sharp and guttural, “It was an experiment and I am shocked it worked. Now, if you would stop pacing like a caged lion I could explain my thoughts. If you are anything like the Arthur I know, you’re keen on the understanding. The hypotheses and the testing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So the other me is a bloody genius, is he? Another way to make me feel bad for being me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re awfully testy. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur stared at the amber-eyed cat. It gazed back at him, licking a languid paw. Its fur was russet and gold, resting over a body roped with muscle. It seemed larger than any cats Arthur knew.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And your cats can talk?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No you idiot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Correction: your cats can insult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, the cats do not talk.” Francis sighed, downing the last of the wine. Arthur was sorry to see it go. “They only talk to their masters. He, I think his name is Fen, is your familiar. The other Arthur’s familiar. If anything, it is even more interesting that you can hear him. It begs the question of what kind of man you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not into philosophy.” Arthur brushed the air with his hand, batting away the thoughts. “What I want to know is how to get back. I have a deadline coming up and a meeting to attend. You brought me here, so put me back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would if I could. You’re very loud.” Francis stood, brushing over to Arthur. He smelled rich and pleasant. He also was much taller than the Francis Arthur remembered. Arthur suddenly felt very short. “Unfortunately, I can’t help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this a spiritual journey or something? Do I have to find the missing keys to bring me back?” Arthur scoffed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I just never got far enough with my experiment. Let us hope Arthur can find an answer on the other side. We’ll work here, of course. You need to blend in. If the Masters here about this I may be kicked out of this country for good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what you did was illegal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Illegal implies there are laws. This is more of a grand taboo.” Francis stepped away from Arthur, brushing his hair over his shoulder. It fell in a long waves, that too was longer than Arthur knew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I’m dreaming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please do not start to hurt yourself to make yourself ‘wake up’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is exactly what someone--Oh god, I sound like Alfred. Bloody hell.” He sat down on one of the couches. The cushions crunched unpleasantly under him. His robes bunched up behind him, creating an uncomfortable pillow. He tried to adjust. The cat walked up to his side, sitting on the other end of the couch. “What do you suggest, cat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I suggest you consider that you’re stuck here until you figure a way out. Losing hope will not help anyone. Especially me. My sanity is very important. You will not know this, but suggest to Francis that you both head to the Pole and seek out the one called Tino.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know a Tino.” Arthur said, “Is everyone in this world?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tino? Did Fen tell you to seek him out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tino that I know is Fin--Finnish. Is that something that exists here? Just how much is different from what I know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s for you to seek out. Ask the cat what he knows about Tino.” Francis turned towards Fen, who had stopped grooming. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tino was discussing a topic earlier this year, during the winter. About an Alchemical machine that can bend the threads.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell does that mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did he say?” Francis turned to Arthur, who haltingly relayed the message. He nodded as he digested the information. “We shall pack your things. I’ll contact the Masters so they don’t think anything serious has happened to you. I will tell them that you were needed in Iceland urgently, concerning your thesis. Yes…” His words ran together, losing Arthur entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gentle knocking stopped Arthur and Francis from discussing further. Francis gestured for Arthur to stay seated as he approached the door. It opened, revealing a robed and frazzled Alfred. Arthur stood, approaching the young man. Francis tried to hiss at him to stay back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Howdy, Professor Kirkland!” Alfred said, laughing. His face was tan, his blond hair pushed back from his forehead. His glasses were not the chic, thick-framed ones he had worn just a few hours before, albeit a universe away, but a thin wiry sort that continuously slid off his nose. The lenses were thick, distorting his eyes. On his shoulder a magnificent bird stood, golden headed and with the sharp, gnarly talons of a predator. “I’m real sorry and all, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What can we do for you, child?” Francis asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred gestured to Arthur. “I gave you a copy of my thesis, all well and good, but I don’t have another copy. I was wondering if I could snag it? I won’t be but a minute.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur looked down at the pamphlet on his desk, stamped with ALFRED F JONES in bold typeset across the front. Arthur grasped it and handed it over, trying not to speak. Both Francis and Alfred spoke differently here. It was inevitable Arthur sounded different, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, thank you mightily.” Alfred said, giving a curt little bow. “And thank you too, Professor Bonnefoy. I’ll bring this back.” The bird watched Arthur from the side of his head and ruffled its feathers. “Calm down, Em,” Alfred hissed at it. He apologized again, “She’s all riled up, don’t mind her. The flight over isn’t great for anyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Alfred paused at the door, looking at Arthur curiously. Arthur tried to look as a professor would, straight backed and severe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Also, I, uh, overhead. Through the door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you hear?” Francis retorted, looming over Alfred. Alfred seemed to shrink. This young, soft-looking doppelganger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything.” Then: “And I can help! I’m sure of it.” He beamed at them both, pride and joy and youth.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh dear</span>
  </em>
  <span> Fen muttered, looking uncomfortable around the great bird. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh dear, oh dear. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Technical Talk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Starting from this chapter onwards, each chapter will only refer to one Arthur at a time.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Arthur lay in his hotel bed, watching the fan swirl overhead. He lay on top of the blankets, curling into himself. He had showered and washed, enjoying the nicely scented soaps. The taps were much more agreeable than the ones he knew. The water heated almost instantly and there was no subterranean gurgling accompanying the upwelling of water. He rummaged through a small green suitcase that leaned in the corner, its inside spilling out haphazardly. Along with some suitable clothes, he found a rectangular case of some sort, which he ignored, and a little metal tin. He held that one aloft, examining the burnished sides and faded drawing on the top. Arthur wanted to know what was inside, but Fen’s imaginary voice pestered him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Would you want him going through your things? No. I didn’t think so. Now, put it back before you break it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Arthur set the tin back in a fold of clothing, and decided instead to try and sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once Francis had taken Arthur to his room earlier that evening, he mentioned that he would contact this Ivan, a name he felt distantly familiar with, and Alfred. In the morning, he would come fetch him. With that, he bade him a good night and shut the door softly behind him. Arthur felt sorry to see him leave.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Restless, Arthur tried to read a bookmarked book on the bedside table. Despite the promise of being interesting, as its cover was bent and its spine wrinkled, it did not hold his attention for long. The language was the same, save for a few missing ‘e’s, but the worlds felt leagues apart from what he knew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How did this Arthur manage, being so alone all the time? He pitied him, enough to feel a pang of sorrow. He shut his eyes, feeling them hot with tears, and prayed to the Martyrs to just let him sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his dreams, he was in a winter forest. Trees rustled around him, dusting him with soft snow. It fell on his head and shoulders, accumulating despite how many times he tried to brush it off. Ahead of him, the freshly fallen snow was interrupted by tiny pawprints. Arthur started after them, dragging his feet through the biting cold of piled snow. He kept pushing, despite the chill. And, in the ways that dreams go, the rest of the world narrowed down only to his little path of twisting pawprints. He pressed on and on, shoving the frigid barrier with his chilled hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for a swish of a tawny tail and a flick of whiskers, he could never get close enough. He moved his legs weakly, the snow now reaching his ribs, his chest, his neck, his lips, his eyes, engulfing and swallowing him. If only he could push just a little further--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He woke suddenly to a sound of rapping at his door. His eyes opened to pale blue light fitting into a room he didn’t recognize for a long, painful heartbeat. His toes still felt cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur! Are you awake?” A voice drifted from the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur gestured for it to open, stretching his back and trying to remember where he even was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door would not budge. He tried again, grasping for the threads of magic, and finding he had come up empty. He stared at his hands, reality colliding with his waking mind. He’d been foolish to think that, once awake, he’d be back to normal. Arthur slipped on his socks and shoes, rushing to open the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis stood before him, dressed in the same kind of pants, “jeans” he had called them, and a dress shirt with the first few buttons undone. Arthur looked anywhere but there. “Good morning,” Francis said, glancing into the room. “Did you sleep with the fan on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off.” Arthur admitted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll catch a cold.” Francis rubbed Arthur’s shoulder, “You’re practically frozen. Come on, let’s get breakfast and then we’ll meet with them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well, then.” Arthur said, stepping out. Francis ducked back into the room before he could, grabbing a card he had told him the night before was a room key, silly since it didn’t even look like a key, and Arthur’s telephone. Francis glanced at the screen, getting it to turn on somehow just by lifting it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The battery’s dead. We’ll charge it later, I think Alfred has the same type of cell phone. Now, come on.” He paused in the doorway, leaving little room between him and Arthur. He stared at Arthur’s face. “Are you doing OK?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said battery, yes?” Arthur said, “Batteries are familiar to me. They charge and discharge particles efficiently. The ones I know, at any rate. Are you telling me this device has one? It must be very small then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis stepped away, shutting the door behind them. “You can ask later. We have many more things to figure out, first.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After breakfast in the nice dining hall and enough pastries to make Arthur’s stomach hurt, Francis took Arthur to his automobile. Arthur slid into the smooth seats, finally something that was familiar. That is, until Francis launched it into speeds Arthur was sure would bring up the chocolate filled croissants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking anywhere but out the window, Arthur asked where they planned to meet the other two. Francis, having donned dark-tinted spectacles, stared astutely ahead. “Alfred has a house here. I got them to meet up there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you tell them, pray tell? Were they reluctant?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told them we were planning an orgy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur’s gaped. “You couldn’t have persuaded them with that?”’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m only teasing you, Artie.” Francis said, reaching over and squeezing Arthur’s knee. Arthur felt something flutter in his chest. Before he could brush off Francis’ hand, it had already returned to the steering wheel. Arthur wondered why this Francis was so hard to ignore. The other one he could smack away and tease all he wanted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all the things to think about, Arthur felt somewhat ashamed to have lingered on that thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis, can you describe Ivan for me?” Arthur asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think you know him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe. That name sounds very Slavic. Like a name someone from St. Peter would have, perhaps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We just call it Russia. And he’s tall. Very tall with silver-blond hair, it looks almost white. He has a large nose, too. Big hook. And his eyes are a mix of blue and purple, it is almost lilac.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur thought he could hear Francis say the word “lilac” a thousand times over. His accent danced through the world -- glided through the l, rested on the i, and clicked the c. Arthur nodded along, reminding himself to think of someone he knew who looked like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did know a Hunter by that name who looked like that. Arthur hoped this Ivan was kinder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They arrived at Alfred’s home, a small apartment tucked away in a building. The outside of it was protected by a thickly wired fence. Flowers dotted the edges and top, dangling in the breeze. Little pink pansies and stargazers. Arthur, still feeling seasick from the car, tried to peer through the gates while Francis waited at the entrance, his telephone to his ear. A moment later, a buzzing sound went off and the gate unlatched, swinging open. Francis gestured for Arthur to follow, still wearing the dark spectacles that made Francis seem oddly serious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The building smelt of fresh paint. A staircase hugged the left side of the wall, which Arthur headed towards, waiting for Francis to follow. Francis, who had stopped at a set of doors next to the stairs, looked at him, at the doors, then back at him. He tucked his telephone into his pocket and followed Arthur, taking the lead once they reached the third or fourth floor.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They reached the fifth floor, with only two doors on either side. Francis was breathing heavily, rapping his knuckles against one of the doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ought to smoke less tobacco, dear.” Arthur said, admiring a plant in the hallway that, on closer inspection, appeared suspiciously waxy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’ve heard.” Francis grunted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door swung open, revealing Alfred who welcomed them in. “Did you bring the movie?” Alfred asked, grinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur watched Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No movie, cheri, only Arthur and his stories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, if I wanted stories I’d call up my grand-dad. Oh wait.” Alfred gave Arthur a pointed look that he did not quite comprehend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside, on a massively oblong couch, the man Arthur assumed to be Ivan, lounged. He stood when Arthur approached and nodded at him, smiling vaguely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, then, I have quite a bit to say to you lot, so listen up. If you don’t believe me then so be it. We’d better sit down for this.” So they sat, Arthur perched on the edge of one of the couches as Francis reclined near him, regarding Alfred and Ivan evenly. Arthur tried to explain the recent events as best he could and demonstrated proof by way of his attitude and general accent. He was aware the way he spoke unsettled Alfred, especially by the way he squinted his eyes at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok, so there’s another world out there. And Francis is in it.” Alfred said slowly, considering. “Also, by the way, much better than a movie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis shrugged. Ivan remained stoic, now watching Alfred speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I in your world?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur nodded. “Yes, actually, I had just gone to a presentation of yours. Quantum Magical Theory or something like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quantum? Man, all I remember are those stupid Gaussian curves. Am I right?” Alfred looked at Ivan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t it your job to know these things?” Ivan responded, voice slow, heavy. Hearing it sent a memory of fear through Arthur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Technically yes.” Alfred turned back, “So, what am I like? You said Francis was different. Am I different?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you look younger.” Arthur said, not mentioning that he, too, looked younger in his world. “And you’re very avid. Your familiar is this lovely bird. I recall you also spoke differently, much like I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what? Do I talk all posh?” Alfred mimicked what he thought was a British accent, poorly. Even Arthur could tell that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm, no. More like this.” He drawled, letting the words marinate on his tongue before lazily spilling out. “You take your time with your words, and you say things like ‘mighty fine’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’m Southern. Awful accent by the way. Way worse than mine.” Alfred nodded, as if he understood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Southern? Like the Southern colonies? I believe you mentioned that’s where you were.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, I guess? There hasn’t been a real Southern Colonies in a long, long time. Don’t you remember? There was a whole war over it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, there was a war, and the two colonies remained apart. As far as I recall.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, all three of the men were bent forwards, listening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred nodded his head again, scratching the back of his neck in thought. “So some of the stuff is true. It’s like those movies where there’s two worlds, and they split due to a major event.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis tapped Arthur’s arm, “Where am I from? The other me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Gallic Kingdom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, with a king and queen and all? It’s not France?” Francis ventured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, there’s a king and queen. I don’t know a France.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was there ever a revolution?” Alfred asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So after I was founded, before you had your revolution. Something must have happened. Do you remember anything huge like that?” Alfred asked Francis, who only shook his head, looking deep in thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan cleared his throat, “Where am I from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“St. Peter.” Arthur paused. “I think. I don’t remember you very well. Your people and mine are not always on the best of terms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to hear that.” Ivan said quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred stood, suddenly, disrupting the uncomfortable silence. He started at Alfred, eyes wide, grinning furiously. “I think I have an idea. A baby idea, not ready yet, but with a little time. Come on, I’ve got something to show you.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Sea-Stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“This journey will take about a month,” Francis said, tapping a map he unravelled on the desk. It depicted Europe in much the same way Arthur knew it to be. Francis had, with a charcoal pen, dotted a route that crossed the English channel, into France marked as “Gallic Kingdom”, and cutting through Europe and up through Russia. Or, rather, “St. Peter”. “Luckily, I have connections to cross the channel. Under two hours to the Kingdom, and then an easy ride therein. Getting across Europe will be more of a challenge. We can find some horses in the Empire, I have a friend. Maybe a train through St. Peter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred nodding along, his bird perched on the window sill and continuously eyeing Arthur with suspicion. Arthur returned its glower before turning his attention to the map at hand. He tapped the pale blue paint between the Brit Kingdom and the Nordic Nations. “Can’t your friend just have us cross the North Sea? It would be much quicker, assuming Tino is in ah,” He glanced at the cursive title, “Finland.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is,” Francis nodded, “but the North Sea is not our territory to cross. The Hunter’s Board laid claim to it almost a century ago. Even trade ships find it hard to get through alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is a Hunter’s Board?” Memories of ships and sea began to swill in his mind. He could practically smell a brine-filled breeze. He longed to set sail, once again, and had to stop himself from humming a shanty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a dangerous thing,” Francis said, glancing at Alfred who was examining one of the wall's many bookshelves. “And they would kill us before even the Whales could capsize our boats.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whales, you say?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis said nothing, rolling the map up and tucking it into the folds of his robes. It vanished into the blue depths and into unseen pockets. Francis lifted his hand and muttered something Arthur could not hear. Behind them, from the top of one of the numerous bookshelves, a suitcase wriggled free. It arched down, landing between the disheveled couches. Francis said something else and it opened. Inside, robes were tucked in neat rows, a small leather case gently nestled in the middle, and two pairs of shoes were strapped to the inside of the cover. Fen glanced at it, eyes narrowing. “That should be it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that all yours? In this, er, in ‘my’ office?” Arthur said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s yours. You always had this ready in case we were going on a research project.” Francis responded, motioning for the luggage to zip and shut on his own. Arthur watched in fascination as Francis’ hands moved, wrist twisting and fingers gripping. It looked to him like Francis was tugging on invisible strings. “It’s poor for cold weather, but we’ll see to that when we get there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m all packed up,” Alfred interceded, coming away from the bookshelves. His bird flapped to his shoulder. “In case you were wonderin’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was not, child.” Francis said, “But that cuts our time down. Now, let’s head down. I’ve already contacted the Masters, but it would be best to avoid them and get going quickly. Arthur, are you well to go?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m quite well. In fact, I’m curious as to what your ships are like. It’s been a few decades at least since I set foot on a boat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You like the sea, then? Interesting. Let’s get going.” Francis gestured for them to get moving, out the heavy wooden doors and towards the stone stairwell. Behind them, the luggage followed Francis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They took the stairs down, much to Arthur’s displeasure, and down and down. It seemed to Arthur the echoing chamber and smooth stone steps would never end. Halfway down, the twisting path was interrupted by another door, leading to someone else’s study. It hung ajar, exposing a figure in the darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis paused, letting Alfred stumble behind him. Arthur nodded a hello, hoping that would suffice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where ye off to?” The voice said, opening the door further. Dim stairwell light illuminated a head of pale red hair and freckled face. And eyes Arthur could not forget. He caught his breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re on a research expedition.” Francis said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man grunted. “Off with ye, then. Bring back something good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door shut behind him, puffing up a cloud of dust into wayward sunbeams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really should sweep here more often.” Arthur said quietly, following the other two as they continued to traipse down the steps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, we can’t go out the way I came in.” Francis whispered to them both. Arthur nodded. Alfred stared in wide-eyed excitement. Francis seemed to reconsider. “Alfred, are you sure you’re fair to leave? Don’t you have more work to do here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was fixing to ask the Masters here if I could stay, but I forgot my thesis, see? And I hadda go back to Arthur’s room. Heard y’all talkin’, thought about the Scope and decided this was a better venture. I was going to head up in an aeroplane soon as I was done, anyhow. Also, I have everything I came with.” Alfred shrugged, indicating a bag hanging from his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s airports?” Arthur asked. The steps spilled into a garden square, surrounded on all sides by stone pillars decorated with hanging cloths and tapestries. The garden was empty, save for a few fluttering birds tweeting merrily. Francis continued to shepherd them down one of the sides that boxed in the garden. Beyond it, Arthur could see a set of tightly shut iron-enforced doors. A few robe hems slipped in and out of sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Airports? Like sea-ports but for aeroplanes? That would be a sight. No, we have aeroplanes for rent, if you can fly ‘em.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you can fly?” Arthur asked. “Why don’t we have you fly us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred looked uneasy. Their steps echoed into the darkening sky. “It’s one thing to fly a long time over the Pacific, but it’s another altogether to go over all of Europe, and worse to go over the North Sea.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you be shot down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred nodded. They pulled short of the iron doors. One of the Masters, an ancient woman with a serpentine familiar cradling her neck, turned to stare at them. Her eyes were unfocused, dull stones. “Arthur, dearie?” She asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am terribly sorry, Master, but we’re in quite a rush.” Francis interjected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Master appeared confused for a moment. “No, I thought I heard Arthur here, but I guess he’s not. My old senses getting all tangled up in the thread, you know?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis seemed to take note of this as well, tapping a gloved hand against his side. The Master shifted, pulling the doors open and exposing them to the outside of the college. Arthur had wanted to see more of it, but decided he wanted to be home far more. “Take care, Francis.” She said, staring blankly ahead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the journey from the college to the port was short. The college town sat just a ways off, enough so that Arthur could see the tall boats with their proud masts as specks against a glittering sea. Arthur had never seen the likes of it. Between here and there, the fields were bright green, rich and alive. Homes dotted here and there, puffing smoke from their chimneys as the temperate day drew to a chilly night. The sky was swollen now with deep orange, stars already speckling the darkest corners. Fen followed a step behind, powerful legs moving him forwards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they reached the port, buffeted by a salty, cold breeze, Arthur felt his heart pounding. Francis went up to the docks, telling Arthur and Alfred to stay put. He went up to one of the men. His hands began to vibrate and turn a bright gold as he spoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next to him, Alfred coughed politely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” Arthur asked, looking to the young man who stood a good head taller than him. Alfred adjusted his slipping spectacles, his bird flapping at his shoulder. Fen stood close to Arthur, but not close enough to touch. His tail wrapped around his paws. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem to know Francis.” Alfred offered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, the frog haunts me in my world as much as he does in this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I reckon you’re friends, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve known each other for a long, long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You keep talkin’ like you’re ancient. You can’t be much older than Francis, and he’s what? Twenty something?” Ahead of them, Francis began to wave to one of the ships. It twisted in the water, making for him. Its flag flapped in the wind, flashing red and gold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am exceptionally old.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do people in your world live for a long time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur turned his full attention to Alfred, looking him up and down. He looked the same as the Alfred he knew but, no, he was definitely younger. Younger in a way that being perpetually about the same age wasn’t exactly young. He was fresh, his cheeks flushed with red, his eyes squinting against the sea air, his hair a fullness. He wasn’t the Alfred that Arthur knew, he knew that somewhere deep inside, but looking at him… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s our ship, lets go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ship moored, unravelling steps on to the dock. From the ship emerged what Arthur could only describe as a flesh-and-blood pirate. The man stomped down the steps, his red tricorn marked with several swaths of feathers, curling to his cheek, yellow, blue, red and gold. The stranger embodied extravagance, a coat red enough to remind Arthur that dyeing fabrics meant something here. Strapped across his back, an engraved musket glinted in the dwindling sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his face came to focus, Arthur felt -- well, he wasn’t exactly sure what to feel. Bronzed skin from the sun, glittering eyes, curls of ochre hair loose beneath his cap, and most definitely Antonio. Jewels glittered from his ears and left eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis, what a beautiful surprise to see you here, my friend.” He wrapped Francis in a tight embrace. “And you bring the College Pet, ah, and who is this?” He jangled as he walked, pockets heavy with coin and fingers laden with jewels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alfred Jones, pleased to meet you, sir. I never did meet a real Sea-Farin’ Pirate before?” Alfred shook the man’s hand. He tilted his hat at Arthur, winking at him. Arthur turned to hide his blush, meeting eyes with Francis who grinned wildly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is my friend, Antonio,” Francis announced, slinging an arm around the pirate’s shoulders. “And he refuses to be called a pirate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Correct, I am a Goods Transporter. I work with pay. And if I happen to scout some malicious activity in the open sea, why a few holes in their ship will do them good. Let the air in.” He burst into laughter, joined by Francis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur couldn’t help himself, watching this parallel universe play out as if the real Antonio and Francis were only playing dress-up, “Where’s your third?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The laughter ceased. Antonio gazed at Arthur, his grin fading. “You mean…?” Francis muttered something in Antonio’s ear. “Oh, you never knew? Gil is not here anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because of course, it wasn’t dress up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I apologize,” Arthur said quickly, “I didn’t--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No use dwelling on the past,” Antonio said, picking up the pace again, his smile almost fully regained. “Let’s get on. If we don’t head out soon, the Gallic Kingdom might just drift away. Now, on board!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In another half hour, the sail set off. Arthur and Alfred’s bags were tucked away, (Fen deciding resolutely that he would stay belowdecks, with the luggage and scraps of fish); the ship rocking to life and heading out. It would take two hours, Francis told them, so they should watch the sky. Before they returned to the ship’s bow, Arthur grabbed Francis’ arm, catching him before he followed Alfred out the doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I know Antonio very well?” He asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have met him once before. You brought him a package to be delivered to me. That is the end of your acquaintance as far as I am aware. You could have--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you suggest it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--But of course not. You’re such a prude with me, why would you fold into his big, Spanish arms?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I beg your pardon?” Arthur’s neck felt hot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am only joking, imp.” Francis said, patting Arthur’s back. “No, go talk to him, seek whatever information you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Also, Francis,” Arthur stopped him again.. Francis looked at him curiously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up any tender subjects. It’s just, well, where I know you and Gil and him are very close. And all intact, somehow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis’ constant grin melted into something softer. A sweet smile, that made Arthur’s heart ache. “Gil’s there, huh? When you go back, make sure the other Francis and Antonio are cherishing him as much as they can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened? Can I ask?” Arthur squeezed Francis’ arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur, we only have two hours. Go talk to Antonio. See a sky you’ve never seen before. You can ask me later. That story is a long one. Go.” Francis hissed, coming close. Arthur agreed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the bow, the sky still bleeding orange, Francis immediately set to a card game with a few other sailors and Alfred. Arthur watched the cards flick out, in a star-shaped array for all the players. Francis leaned back, arms crossed. He muttered under his breath and the cards he had moved, one going sideways and the other flipping up to reveal an ace of clubs. Alfred, who had picked up the card and was beginning to set one down, turned to Francis in horror. With a few other sailors, he moaned in defeat. “Already?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur had no ideas what the rules were, and had no doubt in his mind that he’d probably never understand, so he went to Antonio who positioned himself at the very front of the bow. He had a gilded spyglass in his hands, but he watched the ocean before them freely. The English port began to recede. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Antonio? Er, Captain?” Arthur tried, stepping up next to him. He had millions of questions to ask. Why not use magic to pilot the ship? And, more importantly, where could he get a pair of trousers? Neither of those seemed appropriate at this time. Maybe he would ask Francis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” Antonio turned to him, smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to apologize for my rudeness,” Arthur said, “Earlier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Antonio shrugged, “Ah, it is life, isn’t it? Friends come and go. But that’s not why you came to talk with me, is it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, well, yes, I have a few questions for you. About some contacts I have, and whether or not you know about them? Seeing as you’re a well-traveled man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go ahead.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know a pair of brothers? Feliciano and Lovino Vargas? I believe they are from near the Mediterranean.” Arthur had decided saying “Italian” or “Italy” might be odd, seeing as how different country names were. However, the seas seemed safe. He knew the Channel, The Pacific, and the North were correct, at any rate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I met those on a trip down to Rome.” Antonio agreed, “Very strange brothers. Working on this magic theory I have no idea how to even explain.” He held out a gloved hand. “I could never feel the threads, you know? Not like how you can, or how Francis can command them. No doubt the sea would lure me in with her own magic.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long have you been at sea?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For a long time. Since before the War. Back then I only fished, rough work as it was. My hands are still scarred. But, that was not your original question, College Pet. You asked if I knew those men. I do. I’ve delivered many things to them, some from your college, even. They were curious about your work. Is this why you ask?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes.” Arthur nodded, gathering fragments of information. They tangled in his mind. Antonio knew the Vargas brothers, but was not very close with them. That must mean he never tended to Lovino. And, he had said Rome, so perhaps Rome never had collapsed? Before he could ask more, Antonio shook his head and pointed up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ever seen the sky from the sea, at night?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur turned his head up, and gawked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Overhead, Aurora Borealis danced. Lights of so many shades, blues and purples, violets and greens, twisting ropes of light dazzling the endless sky. The light weaved through the clusters of stars. Arthur raised his fingers to his lips, feeling his heart thunder. He couldn’t understand why he felt so shaken. He’d seen the Aurora before, but never just south of England, never at sea, never with so many loving stars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s beautiful.” Arthur marveled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is. I have spent many a night on the sea, and this is what always keeps me here. Some sailors call them the Siren’s Song, or the Whale’s Breath. Superstitious as they are.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur agreed, trying to remember what he once was afraid of, so long ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s… Not good.” Antonio said suddenly, grabbing his spyglass and staring into the sky with it. Arthur narrowed his eyes in the direction Antonio peered, finding a little, squirming black dot that spun in mad circles. The circles grew bigger and bigger, the body shadowing the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis rushed up to him, grabbing Arthur’s shoulder. “Carrions! Get below deck. You have to--” But, before he could, the liquid shadow dashed towards the deck. It collided with Francis, one long appendage reached out to Arthur, and hooking him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur stumbled down with Francis, his face stinging with pain. He tried to see what had attacked him, yet every time he tried to lay eyes upon the beast his focus slid off. He couldn’t see it and his fingers had begun to feel wet. The creature lifted and attacked again, slamming its body into Arthur. He struggled against it, tasting iron. It pinned him down, hot and heavy and empty as space. Arthur gasped in pain as it slashed his chest again with unseen claws. “Help!” He cried out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A loud gunshot exploded to Arthur’s right, dissolving the world into silence, and then into painful ringing. The creature tore away from him. He grabbed at his ears, struggling to stand up. He felt his face drip on to his hands and to the floorboards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his side, he saw the form struggling against invisible bindings, its face a blur Arthur still couldn’t see. Francis stood over it, squeezing his hands into fists and tugging. It struggled, oozing liquid on to the deck from a bullet wound. His hair had come unravelled from his queue, curtaining his face, but he was otherwise unwounded. Antonio, who was holding the musket, reloaded it and took aim again. He fired once more, this time at the creature’s head. He staggered back, the sound exploding once more into the chamber of the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The creature shrieks ceased and its body still. Francis kept tightening some ropes Arthur, for some reason, still could not see, until the creature was completely enveloped. He couldn't hear what anyone was saying, but judging by their expressions, shouts were tossed from one end of the boat to the other. Arthur wiped his face, finding his hands coming away sticky with blood. From what he could feel, he had three long gashes cutting across his face and chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, like coming out of water, more voices came into focus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you bring to my ship, Francis?” Antonio’s voice, the loudest, Arthur heard first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not know this would happen!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This can’t be your little experiment, can it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Antontio’s face pinched with terror. He turned towards Arthur, pointing the muzzle of the musket directly at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What are you?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Unravelling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alfred, following his declaration of an infant idea, began to lead them to his office. The room was in the back of the apartment, away from the living room and the slightly messy kitchen. Ivan stalked behind Alfred, followed by Francis and Arthur. Alfred motioned for them to wait once he reached a cluttered, paper-infested desk. Ivan leaned against the door frame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur and Francis stood side by side in the narrow hallway, Francis resting his shoulder between two hanging photographs. Francis plucked at the short hairs of his stubble, rubbing them between his fingers, lost in thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like you have something on your mind.” Arthur mentioned, watching as Alfred tugged open a drawer against significant resistance. A stuffed folder of paper flew out, tumbling to the ground. Ivan went to pick it up, but Alfred shook his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not important.” Francis said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you say that, it only makes me more curious, dearie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, for one, you always call me ‘dearie’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I call everyone that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred had found something he was looking for and held it up to the light. It looked like a slim, glossy paper with an image inside a rectangle of white. Alfred then compared it to what looked suspiciously like a daguerreotype. Alfred set them aside and resumed rattling around. </span>
  <span>Ivan muttered something Arthur couldn’t hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I can’t look at it too closely. If I think too hard this baby idea will vanish. You get that, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan said nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis rested his palm against Arthur’s shoulder. </span>
  <span>“Do you ever think maybe you can’t get back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I beg your pardon?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last night I was thinking, what if you are not meant to return to your world? What if there is no possible way to return to your world?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur chewed his lower lip. “I was thinking the same thing, Francis. But I live in a world of magic. A world where magic is in everything and everyone, even those who cannot see the threads of it. There’s something significant in that thought. There </span>
  <em>
    <span>has to be</span>
  </em>
  <span> something important, I just can’t lay a finger on it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok!” Alfred said, pushing past Ivan and into the hallway. He held two closed cases, clamped shut with a golden hinge, and each small enough to fit in Alfred’s open palm. “Remember how this all started? You said you were in your world, you were drinking wine with Francis. Here, our Arthur was drinking wine with our Francis. You chinked glass and wham! Both of you, you you not like you and Francis--you get what I mean-- both yous collapsed and switched bodies. That means that, if I’m right, your events overlapped perfectly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see. I considered similar ideas myself,” Arthur agreed, “However, it doesn’t make sense that I would be in the Colonies and not in the Brits.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s where my idea starts to fall apart, I admit, but--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then again, we were in a tall building, and my study is in the highest tower.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like a princess in the highest tower? Did Francis come in and save you?” Alfred chuckled at his own joke. Arthur frowned at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, my Francis is a complete nuisance. He would never save me. Regardless, I was in a high tower on a different continent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But seriously. Too many facts line up.” Alfred said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan interjected, “Not all of them. This could be correlation, not causation.” He brushed his bangs from his eyes, glancing at Arthur. Arthur tensed at the violet irises, but didn’t feel a usual chill race up his spine at the mere thought of a Hunter. Which makes sense, Arthur argued with an imaginary Fen (again, that stab of longing, of loneliness), given that this man is innocent. As far as he could tell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, the reason I bring it up is because it reminded me of something. Look.” Alfred held up the daguerreotypes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each of the daguerreotypes were held in the identical velvet-padded cases and framed with ovular frames. One of them, in his right hand, depicted Alfred himself sitting on a wooden rocking chair. He wore an elegant suit, cinched with a bow-tie at the neck. The image was grainy, speckled with white spots. Alfred smiled at the camera, lips pressed shut. At his lapel, he had pinned a lily, its petals open and exposed, a curling star. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the other, Alfred sat in the exact same position, the exact same soft suit, hair swept back, and rocking chair. Even the graininess matched the other photograph, down to each fleck of white. This was one different, somehow. Arthur peered closer, his head leaning in with Francis’. No, this one was very different. Alfred’s face contorted into one of grief, tears glistening at his cheeks, his lips curled. In his lapel, the bright lily was replaced by the sharp, pointed edges of a cyclamen. Arthur thanked his brief course in botany for finally being useful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened, did you change the flower?” Francis asked, “Were these taken moments apart? I suspect it’s not that straightforward.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not,” Alfred set the cases back on his desk, tucking them into a relatively tidy corner. “When we took that first one, where I look happy, the camera didn’t do its usual popping sound, but it sounded like it wigged out on us. I can’t remember all the details, but just that it was so strange. Matthew, who was next to take his picture, noticed that the photographer seemed uncomfortable, but couldn’t say why. Later, when we got them back after the picture was processed, we got two separate photographs back. The man even put them in these little cases. He told us what happened, hand delivering them instead of having someone else bring it over. It meant that much to him, I think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When he went to process them, remember that awful process with mercury? Anyway, when he took the copper plate out, he found that it was two tightly stacked together, suctioned like wet pieces of glass. This was weird, right? He didn’t remember putting more than one in. He was a very particular man, I remember… So he decided to develop both, thinking that one of them was definitely going to come out wrong, since he had only prepared one copper slide. He even suspected both would be botched. Yet, they both developed just fine. Clear as day, just horribly different from each other. And here we have them. I think the daguerreotypist found another job, back then, probably creeped out by this thing.”</span>
</p><p>He watched the other's faces before continuing. </p><p>
  <span>“What do you think? Do you think this could be the same? I wasn’t possessed one second and then not the next,” Alfred continued, “Maybe another me, maybe even your me, at that same time was taking a picture. I’m guessing whatever happened then was not a good outcome. Then again, I didn’t switch bodies with him. Unless I did and I already forgot. No, I think I’d notice if the really sad thing didn’t happen anymore.” Alfred nodded, pleased with his argument.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you suggesting we take a picture?” Francis offered. “Like hunting ghosts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m suggesting we try to match up our timelines. But ghost hunting does sound really fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alfred,” Ivan said, “That would be extremely difficult. There are an infinite--” Before Ivan had the chance to continue, Arthur cried out in pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All eyes turned to him as Arthur hunched against the wall, clutching his face in pain. Francis and Alfred both approached, hands out in concern. He took shaky breaths, “I’m all right, I just had a bit of a--” He cried out in pain again, this time grabbing at his chest. Francis grabbed his face, tilting Arthur up so he could see. Arthur’s eyes squinted against the sharp burst of pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened? What did you feel?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur, feeling a moment of terror so great and without reason, pressed his cheek against Francis’ open palm. “It felt sharp and sudden, and so terrible. I’m not sure what happened…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood still a moment, waiting for Arthur to regain his composure and stand straighter, his hand still pressed to his chest. Francis let his hands drop, settling on holding Arthur’s wrists gently. They watched his features, for any wound to appear, for any blood to bubble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No wound, no gash, no cut, no abrasion. Arthur pulled the collar of his shirt out, peering down at his chest. Again, nothing but unmarked, lightly freckled skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It felt like claws digging into me.” He insisted, meeting Francis, then Ivan, then Alfred’s eyes. “It felt like a great massive beast attacked me. It still bites, much more than a cat scratch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think it’s him getting hurt? The other one?” Alfred asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan nodded, “It would make sense. Nothing attacked you here, you are not wounded, and unless you are prone to sudden facial muscle spasms…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing of the sort, no. But that means there is still a connection.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, if only we could see the wounds. Then you could, like, cut into your skin and write a message, like that one episode--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s besides the point,” Francis urged, “We don’t need to harm Arthur anymore. It wouldn’t be effective. This does offer new information, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, for sure.” Alfred agreed. "And we need as much information as possible."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what do we do?” Arthur asked, feeling queasy. He longed desperately to have Fen in his lap, a soft beating heart to press into his chest, to hold and to find comfort in. To split the pain. When he had broken his wrist falling down several steps, a clumsy accident, Fen had taken half the burden. Arthur had forgotten what it was like to hold all his own pain, by himself. Francis rubbed his back gently. “What do we do?” He repeated, “Where do we go? You know what Arthur is like. What would he do in a strange situation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said he’d find himself with Francis. He’d probably immediately tell him what happened.” Ivan offered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know where your Francis would take him? If we know, we could go there, try to find out what’s happening.” Alfred asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If Francis knew,” Arthur rubbed his sternum, the pain had faded but the spot tingled. “Fen, my familiar, would probably argue for Francis to take Arthur to the Nordics, that’s where Tino, this Alchemical Master, lives. He’s been working for years on this sort of thing. That is, if Fen can communicate to Arthur. And if Francis is willing to believe. Then he’d cross the Channel using his friend Antonio’s ship, probably, and head North. But, our world is dangerous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Antonio… Now, now, hold on one minute.” Francis pointed at the closed cases, “You said Matthew was with you when this happened? Have you asked anyone else? Has anyone else had experiences like this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred said, “Feli mentioned something like that. Like how he could briefly see another world, when I asked him about the picture a while ago. I honestly thought he was going crazy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis asked Arthur: “You said Antonio, who is friends with the other me, so it seems like you know or have at least heard of all of us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m not exactly sure who ‘us’ is, or if I know <em>all </em>of you, but everyone you’ve introduced me to seems at least passingly familiar.” Arthur agreed, his attention drifting elsewhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you do when you try to catch a big fish? You cast a wider net.” Ivan said. </span>
  <span>“Also, everyone is in town.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred slapped his forehead, “Stupid! I didn’t think of that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are we doing?” Arthur watched as excitement bubbled, feeling lightheaded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like Francis said, we’re going to see how many people you recognize. And, since I’m guessing you’re, other you, is with Francis, you should stay as close to this one as possible.” Alfred pointed at them both, “Seriously, don’t leave each other’s side.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur nodded, watching as the threads of magic began to bleed out of his newfound friends. Franic’s fingers dripped the fine, light catching bindings of magic. When he moved, it vanished, brushed away. Arthur looked down at his chest, where he felt the echo of claw marks, and saw a pocket of thin light, reflectant as mercury. Here, the spools unravelled. He watched one thread stretch out into Alfred’s room, splintering off. He could feel it, real as he could feel it in his own world. These threads, only some could see but everyone knew existed, is what drove magic. It was the pathway that it took, clear as blood flows through veins. Another string hung between him and Francis.  Ivan had a few wayward threads hanging around him, refusing to touch his body. Arthur marvelled at it, having trouble focusing his eyes. The one Arthur was most familiar with, pulsed with energy. The physical. He grasped at it, and tugged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The short-legged table in the living room scooted with a screech, pausing the conversation. Alfred fled to the living room at the sound, looking for a perpetrator. He found nothing but a slightly scooted table, and stared right through threads Arthur could see. Alfred pushed the table back in place. The magic trembled weakly against him. “Did you do that?” Alfred watched as Arthur rubbed his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. It seems there might a leak.” His chest no longer shun and glimmered, but still shivered desperately with a magic energy trying to escape. “I’m not certain, but I think seeing the others as soon as possible would be for the better.” He tried to do something else, but, like light beams pointing away from a spider’s web, he could no longer see them. He felt weaker for the effort, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was definitely a leak, Arthur thought, gazing at his hands and chest. And it was him. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. By the Moonlight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Antonio listened without much conviction to the circumstances that brought Arthur aboard his ship, causing a carrion to attack, and why Alfred was even there. Antonio frowned, concern etched between his brows, watching as Francis explained, gold tooth flashing. Antonio leaned against the ship’s bow, behind which the land crept up on the horizon, night time fully engulfing them now. The Aurora’s lights still danced in the sky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis, you are bold.” Antonio said in the long, painful silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was not a compliment. You will leave my ship and not bring him aboard. It is a danger to me and my crew.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was hoping you would help us get some horses. To get to Paris.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Antonio tensed, Arthur worried he would refuse to help, but his shoulders released. “Francis, I cannot stay mad at you. I’ll get you horses, but you must not bring Arthur back on board. The Carrion will follow your scent, now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are the Carrion?” Arthur asked, sensing the way Antonio said it, it was carrion with a capital “C”. The damned things had taken all the swashbuckling fun away, leaving behind only painfully scabbing scratches on his face and chest. Alfred had dabbed him clean with a wet cut of cloth. The ship’s medic refused to even come near Arthur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They hunt where magic is weak.” Francis said dismissively, turning back to Antonio. “I will pay you for the horses, my friend.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You couldn’t get away without paying. Where will you go from Paris?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll take a train to St. Peter then ferry North.” Francis explained his plans again, outlining names of places that Arthur did not know. Alfred waited in the sidelines, near Arthur. He was frowning at the sky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alfred, what are carrion?” Arthur asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bad news.” Alfred said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None of you will bloody help me.” Arthur grumbled, resigning to watch the shore spill into focus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they docked, the shipmates quickly unravelled the steps and urged the unwelcome visitors off. Antonio joined them on the shore, keeping a wary eye on Arthur. The night air was cool and tinted with salt. All around them, late night workers tugged cargo from docking ships. Men clad in oilskin jackets nodded at Antonio, who waved his bejeweled hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not far from the dock, a horse’s stable stood between the steadily busy dock and a seemingly endless sea of trees. Great stallions with glossy manes and backs roped with muscle slept or snorted in the stables. They shook their heads when their small group approached, Antonio leading the way and Alfred in the far back. Fen walked at Arthur’s side, casting glances at him but saying nothing. The cat seemed uncomfortable around Arthur, even now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Antonio stood before the stablehand, a young man with a freckled face who smiled at Antonio. He spoke in a mix of what Arthur assumed to be Spanish and French, but again with the same unfamiliar accent Francis had. Antonio tapped a leather boot, grinning as the stablehand spoke. He said something, which the boy wavered at. Antonio leaned in, flipping his hair over his shoulder, to let the brown curls tumble down his back. He spoke in a slow way to the stablehand, who flushed in uncertainty, eyes flicking to Arthur, Francis, and Alfred. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, somehow, Antonio convinced the stablehand to release three horses in exchange for a bag of jangling coins. He led the horses to the three of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you have to seduce him into giving us the horses?” Arthur asked, gently patting the nose of a golden one the stablehand handed off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are a superstitious people,” Antonio said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He knew I got attacked?” Arthur asked. The horse sniffed at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. You don’t need to know to sense something is different about you. And coming at midnight during a strong Aurora? All bad news.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I apologize, then.” Arthur said, but Antonio had already left. The not-pirate had thrown his arms around Francis, holding him close and pressing a kiss to Francis’ cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They did tell me the Europeans were touchy-feely.” Alfred said, as though confirming a suspicion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re always like that.” Arthur said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was that a note of jealousy, sir?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Onwards!” Francis called out to them before Arthur could be aghast at Alfred’s statement. Franics brought the horse away from the stables, rubbing its neck before swinging easily onto its back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur glanced at his horse’s lovely golden hair. She met his gaze. “We don’t have a saddle.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Antonio approached behind Arthur, grasped his sides, and hefted him on top of the horse. Arthur yelped at the sudden upwards motion, forcing his legs to swing around and straddle the horse. His robes bunched up at his back and front, making for an uncomfortable buffer between him and the horse. Antonio patted her side, as she seemed agitated with the motion. Antonio strapped Arthur’s small suitcase behind him, securing it with a length of leather he had secured from the stablehand.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s better this way. Saddles only hinder. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fen said, leaping onto Arthur’s lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Saddles were invented for a reason.” Arthur hugged the horse’s neck, careful not to crush the cat.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Have you ever ridden a horse?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have, long ago.” Arthur said, watching as Alfred hopped on his own. Francis shifted and his stead, a creamy beige stallion, began to nose towards the forest. Alfred followed behind. They waved to Antonio, Alfred calling his thanks. Arthur’s horse began to follow, its steady pace the only reason Arthur didn’t slip off immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hug her with your legs! Hold on tight. You can’t just lay there with your eyes shut.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should have left you, cat.” Arthur hissed, but hugged the horse and sat up as straight as he dared. Steadily, as they entered the canvas of the forest, the memory of riding trickled back into Arthur’s muscles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The green trees, deep in the night, shivered in the wind all around them. Insects, owls, wolves howled in the depths of the forest. The bloated moon hung overhead in a sky speckled with stars. The Aurora was not visible from here, but the swirling designs overhead were enough to pierce through the canopy of trees. The horse rocked underneath him, Fen curled at his stomach. Ahead of him, Francis led the way. The horse’s black tail flicking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long?” Arthur called out. His voice penetrated the night. “Is this really the only way to Paris?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A day. And no, but it’s the safest. We’ll be there by tonight. We’ll stop in a village between here and there.” He called  back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They rode like this for some time, Francis picking up the pace when the forest cleared enough to do so. Otherwise, they galloped lightly over brambles and around fallen tree trunks. Arthur felt the world hum and throb with magic he barely remembered. Here and there, he thought he caught eyes flashing at him through the darkness. The poplars and oaks exuded their sweet smells, drifting through the air, lulling Arthur. He suddenly remembered how long ago he had slept last, all the way in another world, on a not-so-comfortable hotel bed. He felt his head dip. The galloping horses a rhythmic lullaby. Oh, and how his legs began to ache with moving with the horse. He could close his eyes… </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wake up! You’ll crush me and fall off the horse!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Fen hissed in his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur snapped awake, finding that he had gripped the horse’s mane tightly. He let go, patting her neck by way of apology. She had slowed down, following Francis and Alfred ahead of them. Overhead, Alfred’s bird flew, sharp eyes watching far ahead for any danger. Whatever danger that may be. Francis turned his horse around, watching Arthur and Alfred, who had both become drowsy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a pond here. We’ll stop and water the horses. Maybe take a short rest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred yawned widely as his horse lurched forwards, following Francis through a beaten-road side route. “Why are we in such a rush? Can’t we just camp out for a minute? It’d be a fine thing to do…” He yawned again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a time sensitive matter, child.” Francis stopped his horse as they approached a glittering pond. It reflected the moonlight, gold and yellow, and hosted a small collection of tiny fish. Birds that had crowded it around it fluttered their wings, but did not leave when the horses came to a stop. They gratefully dipped their heads into the water, the veins on their necks large rivulets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur slid off and nearly collapsed to the ground. He did not feel well to begin with, and now his legs contracted in pain. He rubbed at his thighs and calves. Alfred, his spectacles neatly tucked into his pocket, cupped his palms full of liquid starlight and splashing his face. The glistening droplets dripped down his nose and chin. Francis did the same, splashing water on his neck as well. Fen flicked his long tongue, sending concentric ripples away from his face. Arthur approached and looked into the clear face of the water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gazing back at him was a younger, softer Arthur. One with fewer lines around his eyes and smoother cheeks. Hair that rolled in wheat-colored curls. He touched the surface of the pond, it felt warm and clean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something in your teeth?” Alfred offered, coming closer to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I look different than I remember. I look so young.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t be that old.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m much older than you think.” Arthur folded his legs under him, trying to spread his robes so the grass didn’t prickle his bare calves. “And you’re not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis came and sat down on the soft grass with them, so that Arthur sat in the middle. He collected his robes on to his lap. In the starlight, the fabric seemed iridescent. From his robes, he pulled three wrapped packages and handed them out to them. Arthur thanked him, unwrapping the wax parchment to reveal a quarter of a baguette with thinly sliced meat and cheese. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they chewed, Francis pulled out a long, thin gilded pipe and lit it. He puffed long drags of purplish smoke. Alfred’s bird perched on his horse, chewing at its feathers, near enough to drop wayward feathers for Fen to bat at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur?” Francis asked, exhaling a plume that dissipated into the night. “Do you have anyone back home you want to see? Anyone you miss?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur considered, thinking of all the faces he knew. He thought of his Francis, his Alfred, that secretary he had completely forgotten about -- sucking in breath at the realization he had a deadline in a week, but what could he do? -- and all the others. All his friends. He rubbed the blades of grass between his fingers, reflection into his reflection, seeking answers in a moonlit pond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a lot of friends. Hey, can you tell me what you think of me? The other me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred watched Francis inhale with his eyes closed, exhale through his nose. Thinking. “Arthur is kind, and gentle. But he is analytical, and can get carried away. He spends years on research even if they seem unsolvable. I would think as we speak he’s trying to piece this puzzle together as fast as he can. He loves it here. He loves Fen. He loves his job. I don’t think I’ve seen him unhappy except for long ago, after tragedy hit him.” Francis shrugged, “But we should get going. We need to make it to the village by midday and get some more food for our journey.” He watched Alfred, who had lain down, and Arthur who wobbled as he rose to his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis set aside his pipe, vanishing it into the folds of his robes. “Let’s take a quick rest here. I do not think you’ll survive the rest of the trip.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur and Alfred collapsed back on to the soft earth and grass, mumbling gratefully. Sleep swept them up quickly, even before Francis could finish securing their belongings and checking on the horses, who chewed at the grass. Francis tied them to the trees with the threads of magic, gentle enough so they wouldn’t feel it but taut enough that escape would be impossible. Francis rubbed Fen’s head gently, taking him into his arms. Fen curled gratefully into his warm body, purring like an engine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis laid down next to Arthur, Fen in his arms, and looked down at the sleeping form. Arthur’s bangs fell over his shut eyes, eyelashes fanned against pale cheeks. Francis reached over gently and brushed away the loose strands of hair, tucking them behind Arthur’s ear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A few hours later, Francis roused them from sleep. The sun began to peer over the horizons, spilling light into the forest. They clambered back on to their horses, leaving the pond behind them as they rode on. Francis pressed their horses to gallop faster. The golden mare beneath Arthur followed, powerful legs launching them forwards, out-pacing even Alfred’s inky black stallion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a long silence, they caught sight of chimney smoke puffing into the dawning sky. Alfred mused about Gallic countryside breads and fresh milk, namely because of the cows milling in the open fields. Closer and closer they drew, seeing slowly that the chimney smoke was not chimney smoke at all, but plumes of great black clouds of soot and ash. Francis pulled his horse to a stop, watching as a villager approached them at a run. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man, clad in coarse breeches and an oilskin coat, held up a long rifle, pointing skywards. He spoke a rapid string of French at Francis, all the while Francis’ face sunk more and more into a look of deep concern. Fen’s fur bristled in Arthur’s lap and the great bird spun in maddening circles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on?” Alfred asked, leaning over his horse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carrion. Burn the witch.” Francis said, twisting his lips in disgust. “The sort. We should leave.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t seem right, Francis.” Arthur argued, “Isn’t there something we can do to help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis pulled his horse closer to Arthur, dipping his head so he stared eye-to-eye. “You do not understand this. You do not understand the gravity of being you, or me being me. Even Alfred is a danger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand because you won’t tell me a damn thing!” Arthur retorted. He was hungry and he was exhausted. The appeal of a mystery had long petered out. And his legs ached. “So tell us what’s happening, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred spoke: “Does this have to do with the New Movement?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis shrugged, and asked the villager something else. The villager responded gruffly, eyes on the circling bird. Francis pointed at it and said something more. Arthur was lost to the conversation and looked at Alfred. “What is the ‘New Movement’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some folks think magic is not natural. Even though it’s all around us, there are people who can’t see it, like I reckon you can’t. The number of folks who can’t see far outnumbers the number of folks who can.” Alfred averted his eyes downward. “They do some awful mean things to those who can, if you aren’t lucky. The rich have magic, the poor don’t. It’s been eatin’ up at these people. Anything to break the cycle of poverty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t you just teach them how to use it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, maybe I misspoke, but some people can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. Actually, down to Earth, see it with their own eyes. Plain and simple. If you can’t see them, you can’t use the threads.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the word “threads”, the villager’s head jerked up to look at him. He pointed directly at him and shouted. He pointed his rifle towards the sky and pulled the trigger. An explosion shook them, causing their horses to buck and squeal in fright. Arthur lost balance, slipping off the golden mare. The hard earth slapped against his back. Fen leapt on to his chest, hissing and whipping around. Alfred and Francis managed to stay on, only to be pelted with a volley of arrows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They flung from the corners of the forest and from the village itself. Men who had been hiding in the underbrush, their faces splattered with mud, emerged with long bows that had hid in wait. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They knew!” Francis cried out, “Someone told them!” Francis gasped in pain as an arrow narrowly missed his head. He swung his open palm around his head, creating a shield Arthur could not see even if he was upright, the deflected arrows so they slid like raindrops off rock. Alfred was struck in the leg by an arrow. He yanked it out, only to slip off the horse as well to avoid another wave. The horses, all but the creamy stallion Francis rode, burst into flight in either direction from them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur tried to rise, but his legs stung with pain. Fen pressed his paw to Arthur’s chin, claws digging in gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stay down. They’ll spare you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spare me what?” Arthur coughed, his ribs stinging in pain. “What’s happening?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We’re outnumbered. Horribly outnumbered. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Alfred’s bird screeched overhead. Alfred, who now crouched over Arthur, crouched low. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis will try to shield us, can you run?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fen hissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess not. Come on.” Alfred slid his arms under Arthur and hoisted him up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, you’re not supposed to--ouch!” Arthur squirmed as he was lifted. Alfred held him with surprising strength, carrying him in the direction of the forest. Francis followed behind, still chanting a spell under his breath. Arrows countinted to plink off his shield. Francis’ horse squealed in terror, holding fast. Once in the shade of trees, Francis dropped his hand. The fizzling energy of the shield dissipated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dangerous. We have to go around. It’ll add to our travelling time but--” Francis’ horse bucked powerfully beneath him, flinging him off. It ran, dripping blood from an arrow wound in its flank, deep into the forest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur, realizing nothing was broken, miraculously, sat up straight as he could. Francis sprawled on the ground, having landed on a soft brush, he rose tremulously to his elbows, looking at Alfred and Arthur in horror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t expect it to be so bad.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bird fluttered to Alfred’s wind, flapping urgently and squawking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have to run, they’re coming!” Alfred scrambled to his feet, grasping Arthur’s hand and hauling him up yet again. Arthur, feeling miserably thrown around, rose unsteadily. Fen, who had been pacing at Arthur’s side, now rushed to Francis and nudged him with his head. Francis scooped the cat into his arms, following Alfred as they ran. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several arrows pierced the ground where they had lain only a moment before. Arthur wiggled his hand out of Alfred’s grasp, panting to keep up. His legs protested fiercely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw you get shot, Alfred! How are you able to run?” He huffed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred kept running, “I’ll explain later.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All of you explain to me! What are we running from?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hunters.” Francis panted by his ear, cradling Fen. “Hunters are what plague the seas. The bastards are what incited this ridiculous movement. We can’t talk. Keep running.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so they ran, deeper into the forest, trying to create a circle around the village as large as they could. The trees flashed by in a blur of green and yellow from waking sunbeams. They tried to keep going, Alfred urging them with warning in his voice, but their legs were only so strong, and their fear only so sharp. Once the shooting of arrows quieted, and they could run no longer, they slowed to a walk, then to a stop, then to a crouch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve lost our luggage and our horses.” Arthur wheezed. “Please, explain what the hell ‘Hunters’ are. Why I’m here. Everything I want to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will. Once our troubles end.” Francis said. “Not to keep up the suspense, Arthur, but we aren’t alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They lifted their heads, shoulders trembling, to the sound of approaching, thundering hooves and clattering wheels.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Enticement</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was a dream but not a dream. It was so vivid and clear, Feliciano could not tell it apart from any other memory, except for the fact that some facts just were not true. Some things he saw in that sleepy haze, in the moments between nodding off at his desk to waking with a start, shivering at a breeze from an open window, an entire world unravelled. It spread out like a tapestry, each stitch significant and incomprehensibly lost in the fabric. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He recalled, he dreamt, he saw: a balcony at his feet, the cool bronze railing beneath his palms, the way the grape leaves shivered in a wind that beckoned rain. The air felt wet and heavy, the clouds densely gray. Feliciano watched out across the balcony, over a glimmering fountain, and beyond. Laborers worked on constructing a platform of some sort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through this all, Feliciano watched. He could not move these arms or legs, for they were both his and not. He recognized the olive complexion as his own, but the deep scars that webbed over the back of his palm were unfamiliar. When his hair drifted into his face, the reddish brown, he knew it be to his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The laborers called to each other in unmistakable Latin, the marching language running up the air and into the balcony. Feliciano’s body lurched away, pushing itself from the railing and across the steps. The ground was decorated marble, concentric symmetric designs displayed on the ground, spiralling images, a face staring up from the centre of a massive room that connected to the balcony. Feliciano wanted to see, but this body paid it no thought. It marched across the sparsely furnished room and down more steps, out and away until he reached a foyer of some sort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A door opened to his right. The body moved all the way around, swinging into focus as a familiar face approached him. The face, a twin of his own, but less grim and more rigid, bowed before him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lovi,” Feliciano’s voice rang out in the wide chamber. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feli,” Lovino said and spilled into a conversation of papals, plots, the present. Meaningless to Feliciano, but that was not who he was. At least, not who he knew himself to be. The body nodded in agreement, sighing at some parts, concerned at others, laughing lightly in a way Feliciano was horrified to hear himself. Feliciano wanted to crawl out of this shell, far away, out the mouth or ears, just anywhere else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here, the dream begins to fall apart. It fractures and splinters, leaving Feliciano lost, drifting helplessly behind. Flashes of images, of fires blazing and brickwork laid down. Of a shattered cup at his feet. At a dismissive huff that signalled for a faceless maid to scramble in, only for this strange body to turn away. Then, the platform that was built piece by piece. Like fragments of a roll of film, the sweating laborers stuck a pole into the center, wood stake tied with hemp rope, swinging gallows in a fierce rain. Screams, cracks, weeping -- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feliciano swung back into focus, ducking over a basin of water and a copper tap, splashing his face. Feliciano raised his head to stare into a bronze mirror, seeing himself, seeing one amber eye stare back at him, twinned with a dull, sightless stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feliciano gasped awake then, in that room, wondering why he dreamt these horrific things. Wondering why he had been plagued so furiously by these ghasts in the night. Only a month before he had woken, shivering in his bed, after a frightening dream where he had been running. Running and running, clutching something in his hand, his boots slamming against a wooden floor. A fear so real, so palpable, so alive he felt it bleeding terror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, he was getting besides the point, did they want to eat something? Feliciano gazed at the two men in front of him - Alfred and Francis - who only shook their head in apology. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Arthur listened to the retelling by Francis, resting on his hotel bread after a spasm of pain clamped against his back. He felt as though he had fallen from a great height. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I remember that Feliciano. I had seen him come to my college once or twice. He’s a frightening character. This one seems so kind.” He trailed off, shutting his eyes as another wave  of pain passed through his muscles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been alright, standing in Alfred’s apartment, when his legs gave way and he fell forwards. He didn’t recall falling. He didn’t recall crying out in pain when his back spasmed, as though he had fallen from a height. All this was relayed to him second-hand, through Francis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, they sat in his hotel room. Francis had brewed Arthur some tea and handed him a warm mug. He watched him with concern mentioning vaguely that Alfred insisted he stay there while he went and interrogated the rest of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I seem to be so weak,” Arthur said weakly, “It’s like this body is rejecting me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis nodded, “I always wondered what was so different about us. About what makes us live such a long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis, who is ‘us’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Us. The Nations. Everyone you’ve met and recognized. It seems we’re tightly bound by fate, judging by how even in your world you know so many of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure I follow. What do you mean the ‘Nations’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s… Well, you’re England, for one. I’m France. We just are. We are a representation of the people. We live as long as our national pride does. Or, so the theory goes. We’re essentially immortal. It’s what makes this so strange.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would make excellent sense!” Arthur agreed, nodding, his eyes practically glimmering. “This body only hosts me because of the threads that bind me. Or, because of the magic I come with, it allows me to live. And it’s only for so long. I’m not its soul. This body is not just a human body, is it?” He half stood, beaming at Francis. “What an absolutely stunning discovery!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not going to question it?” Francis grinned, amused, “You’re either gullible or desperate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you believed me, didn’t you? Also, it’s a bit far fetched for a joke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“True, true.” Francis grinned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Is it a joke? Am I gullible?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I just have not seen Arthur in such a happy mood in so long. He is always grumpy, always complaining about business and papers and the like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur thought of that phone call with a secretary only a day before. He immediately dismissed the thought, instead choosing to focus on Francis. He’d never seen his own Francis smile so lightly, to hold his body so leisurely against the couch. Their eyes met.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never seen Francis so at ease. The one I know is always focusing on some big agenda. On some massive mission I don’t know if he’ll ever explain to me. All sorts of politics in my world. Much less interesting than the Master’s work.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that Francis unable to give you the attention you need?” Francis asked, curling a strand of his golden hair around a finger. It twisted, catching light. Arthur felt distracted, watching the neatly trimmed, almond-shaped fingernails. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I--ah--no, not really. I had a thing for him. For a bit. He jokes about sleeping with me, but that’s never what I wanted. I have a steady life, you know? I like where I am. I don’t want to travel, if he would even let me go with him. Even if I could, I don’t think I would. The world I live in is dangerous and spiteful. There are powers at play beyond me. And I am safe where I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It sounds like you’ve thought of this before,” Francis pulled his legs beneath him, watching Arthur talk. The unpleasantness, of Arthur’s fragile condition and of strange memories, seemed set aside for now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I have,” Arthur agreed. “I don’t want to just sleep with him. The end. I want something that is stable. Something that lasts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis’ smile faltered. “I see what you mean. You like romance? True love?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know about that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You live in a world of magic, how can you not believe in true love? Even I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do, hm?” Arthur said. He rose and came closer to Francis, reaching out and setting his hand on the other’s arm. He was close enough to see the rise and fall of Francis’ chest, to see the flare of his nostrils, to catch the honeycomb of his irises. From here, Arthur could see the detail of Francis’ lips, the soft cleanliness like a rose petal of the lower lip. Close enough to kiss… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve had an idea,” Arthur said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it involve you and me?” Francis ventured, coming closer. Arthur could smell the lavender on his breath. His heart thumped painfully in his chest, and he doubted it was because of his invisible wounds. He wanted to, he realized, he really really wanted to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled away, standing in his stocking feet between Francis and the unmade hotel bed. “No, actually, it’s about the pictures. And the mirror. And the dreams. And this body.” He said, the words tumbling out before he could contain them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur?” Francis stopped him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can kiss me, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can, but we shouldn’t, really,” Arthur rambled his reasons, but Francis had already stood. He had grasped his face in his hands, his palms warm and large, and brought him closer. He pressed his lips against Arthur’s, softly and briefly. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(Sorry for such a short chapter! Hopefully I can make it up with a much longer one tomorrow.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Impossible Soul [Part I]</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The carts pulled to a stop before them. These were great, massive caravans with multicolored tarps strung over the tops, lined with gold and jingling bells. The horses that drove them wore red and gold binders, their beetle eyes trained ahead at the three men. The frontmost caravan pulled to a stop, the driver, hidden in a black full cloak, hopped off the front. A flash of feet appeared beneath the tumbling shadow of the cloak, revealing tanned ankles ornamented with golden bands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis and Alfred stood defensively in front of Arthur, who held Fen in his arms. Overhead, Alfred’s bird flapped. The driver pulled the cloak hood back, revealing an elegant woman with long brown curls of hair collected loosely at the nape of her neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three wealthy men in the middle of the forest,” She said, her accent dancing around the English words, “Unless you’re mercenaries, I doubt you belong here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s true, we’re a bit lost, ma’am.” Alfred said. Francis shoved himself into the conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know we speak English? And how did you find us? This isn’t a normal path for caravans to take.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman grinned, green eyes flashing. “Who are you to tell us where we can and cannot go? We felt your ‘magic’,” she spat the word, “And heard your voices. You should be more wary to keep quiet. Sound carries.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur watched Francis tense before him, and the way Alfred leaned on one of his legs, shifting uncomfortably. He glanced at Fen. If cats could shrug, he felt Fen would have obliged him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We could travel with them.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Fen whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’d be quite rude.” Arthur whispered back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman’s face, so familiar to him, turned to Arthur as he spoke. She walked towards him, Alfred and Francis parting instinctively. She pushed her cloak over her shoulders, letting it trail behind her as a veil, and revealing a dress of pointed stripes, red and black, with shoulderless sleeves. Her hands were decorated with red paint, or perhaps tattooed, Arthur couldn’t tell in the brief moment before they came before him, touching his face. She stood half a head taller than him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you hurt him!” Alfred cried out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman sighed, “I won’t hurt you,” she said, looking into Arthur’s face as if seeking something. “Yes, you are the one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s terribly cryptic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, I am. Otherwise I wouldn’t be a travelling dancer. Or, how do you say, gypsy?” She pointed the question at Francis, who looked away nervously. “Now,” She turned back to Arthur and let her hands fall away from his face. “Our seer told us of a man like you. One to bridge the gap. Often she is confusing, but I think it is you. Same eyes, same hair, and same handsome cat.” She crouched to pat Fen’s head. Fen, much to Arthur’s surprise, immediately began to pur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you help us?” Arthur asked. “We’ve lost our horses and our supplies.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur--” Francis hissed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman waved her hand at him. “I will help him. And you two, if you are his accessories, I think we can make room. We were headed to the city anyway. I’m assuming that’s where you’re going, don’t look at me like that, Gallic man. Your secrets are not so well hidden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, I am afraid I never introduced myself. I am Elizaveta, and these are my dancers.” She pointed at the caravans, at the faces peeking out from behind hanging cloths. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Accessories?” Alfred asked, aghast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizaveta ignored him, tugging Arthur along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not know you had a way with women,” Francis teased. Arthur scowled in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizaveta, the queen of the caravans, directed the three men and the two familiars to one of the caravans. All around them, curious faces watched. A few women whispered to each other, nodding sagely. By the cart, two other young looking women, a blonde and a brunette, smiled at the newcomers. The brunette was feeding the horse little sugar cubes. Inside the wooden caravan were several cots that folded up into the sides, freeing the inside. In the corners were thick jugs and cloth bags labelled in vaguely Roman letters. Hanging from the top wooden beam of the caravan were drying meats, shrivelled vegetables, and thick cloves of garlic. It smelled strongly, but not unpleasantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other three caravans had also dispatched their horses to drink from a nearby trickling river and graze on grass. The other women stretched their feet and talked, watching Arthur and his friends curiously, murmuring in an unfamiliar language. While Francis tried to insist on paying for the voyage and Elizaveta stoutly ignored him, instead curiously listening to Alfred describe the missing horses, Arthur managed to peek into the other caravans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One had clothes of all sorts hanging inside, leaving barely enough room for a small child to sleep. Which is exactly what was in the folds. A small girl, dark ringlets of hair matted to her head, slept on a bundle of red fabrics. Arthur quietly left that one be.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of the other two, one was piled with instruments, and the other supplies of all sorts. Both were cramped. Arthur wondered where the women, maybe ten in total, slept. The one they had been given was by far the roomiest, despite the crowded bags, jugs, and hanging jerky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He approached the blonde and brunette that were checking on the wheels of their own caravan. The brunette wore loose breeches and had her brown hair twisted into a queue. The blonde had a dress much like Elizaveta’s: black and red and threaded with yellow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you speak English?” Arthur asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brunette smiled, “Of course.” This voice seemed familiar too, and of a deeper octave than Elizaveta’s strong voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you don’t mind a bunch of us men in your caravan. I thank you kindly for your help.” Arthur said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brunette exchanged a glance with the blonde, they both grinned and chuckled privately. The brunette turned back to Arthur, making a dismissive hand gesture, flashing red paint on her hand. “Do not thank us yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizaveta shortly after gathered everyone to the front of the caravans. Another woman with curled blonde hair, named Emma, stood at her side. Elizaveta announced their new travelling partners and the route. She jumped between English and their singsong language. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once she finished explaining, she began to sing. The women all clapped their hands together to a steady, rising and falling beat. The other women chanted along for the short song. Once Elizaveta’s verse finished, the women burst into ululations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We sing to welcome you, and for our gods to protect us. Until you reach where you are going, you will all be one of us. That means you will partake in our daily and nightly chores. This way, fair is fair. May the rhythm of our journey keep pace with our hearts. Climb in with Felix,” Elizaveta said this last bit at Arthur and Alfred, “This unkempt man and I will discuss the journey in greater detail.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They turned away then. Arthur and Alfred followed the blonde from their caravan, leaving a bewildered Francis behind. Arthur felt a twinge of jealousy and was unable to pin the source. They climbed into the back of the dried foods caravan, followed by their familiars. The blonde one named Felix, pulled down one of the folded cots. At the front, the brunette grasped the horse reigns and swung onto the bench that made up the front of the caravan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Felix began to explain to them in a rapid, sharp version of English. “You understand, yes? When it is meal time, you will bring out the flour and sugars, and I will bring out the rest we need. You must be watchful of these things.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got the men folk here to haul the heavy things, huh? That’s why ya picked us up?” Alfred asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We men enough,” Felix said, rolling her eyes. Again, something familiar rang out to Arthur. Something in the way the soft blonde hair fell in curtains to Felix’s shoulders, the pale eyes, the intense gaze. While pointing, Arthur saw a similar symbol to what Elizaveta and the brunette had on the back of Felix’s hand. Arthur wanted to ask when Felix paused, scrunching her nose. “You need new clothes. And to bathe. I will talk to Eliza.” With that, Felix went to sit next to the brunette at the front, leaving Arthur’s questions unspoken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The caravans marched in file, Eliza’s at the front and Felix’s at the tail end. The horses moved at a steady pace, the wooden carts creaking along. Arthur began to hear the galloping of horses as a beat. The rustle of the trees as a melody. Arthur even imagined he heard singing. Alfred nudged him, then, and nodded at the front. The singing Arthur heard rose from the heads of the caravans. Felix had started it, yipping a quick song that ended with a long, dragging note. It was answered by a stronger voice from the front, and soon joined by a subterranean murmur melody that moved through the forest. Pulsing with its heartbeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur, Alfred,” the brunette called behind them in her strange, deep voice. “We must be moving now, but we will stop soon to feed, bathe, and give you new clothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank ya kindly,” Alfred said. “You’re all awful kind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brunette raised a hand, dismissing the thought, again flashing the mysterious symbol. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As so, they marched through the forest. Around them, hills rose and fell. Some held villages like the one they had seen before, but most were bare. They never took the main paths, instead focusing on the outskirts, in the forest when there were enough gaps between the trees, or just out of sight from the villages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred and Arthur lounged on the cots, considering the dangling goods overhead, the scenery around them, the rise and fall of the caravans’ song. Arthur asked Alfred about his job, particularly interested in how he managed to be such a popular researcher so young.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Considering I had your papers before you came in, I’m guessing the other me was quite interested.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure did seem so,” Alfred said, picking at the sleeves of his robes. “He was a real kind guy. Not that you aren’t, just that something inside of him was so soft and sweet. You could tell he had no bad bones in his body.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t get fussy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not fussy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t get antsy, then. I’m just telling you the impression I got from a few minutes' talk with the man. I know you much better than I knew him. Ask Francis if you’re so curious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t answer my question, Alfred, what is your actual job?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Researcher.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why can you pilot a plane?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that job, why didn’t ya say so?” Alfred laughed, “Of course, everyone wants to know all the fun of flying, not the Quantum aspects of magic, not helping the poor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not--no, I just want to know how some of this world works. Do you fly for money?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s actually how it all started.” Alfred admitted. He explained how, when he had just turned 16, he learned to pilot an aeroplane from his father. In the wild countryside of the colonies, there was plenty of room to practice on small ones. Alfred clearly showed a knack for piloting the wooden planes, and soon his father offered his surfaces to some “rich folk” that lived deeper in the city. Hoping to get him out of the slums, out of the wild west as it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred would fly for hours per day, taking rich men with their whining children and pale wives from city to city, or just overhead. The aircraft he had then wasn’t the typical biplane which Alfred had trained on. It was more spacious, with seats in the back but no barrier between him and them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hated those families. The kids tried to climb on your laps and the parents wouldn’t do a thing. Or, the men would get all hot headed and try to tell you what to do, like they knew what was happening. To them, I was just a kid who had a skill. Granted, a very profitable skill, but still, first and foremost: a kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you hate flying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Not at all. I love it. I love the feel of being weightless, all the way up in the air, where you can see the clouds right by your head. Everyone says they look like candy floss, or sugar, but they always looked like hope to me, if hope could be a thing. Up there I wasn’t another person who could see the threads and was special. I wasn’t a kid who could fly a plane, and was therefore special. I was like a bird, a goose, another thing to hang in the air and smell the sweet freshness of it. Especially in the low planes without glass windows.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred’s piloting skills eventually led him to meet an older man, a Master in the Colonies, who could teach Alfred how to use the threads. Up until then, Alfred could see them and sometimes feel them, but it takes focus to really use them. The man had Alfred fly them to a mesa, an empty clear plain out in the desert, and would teach Alfred how to feel a thread and pluck it, to make what he wanted come clear. Alfred would often find himself crying out of frustration at the end of those lessons, sweating in his pilot’s jacket and cap, boots crunching in the desert sand. It was that Master who helped Alfred come into his own, to find a New York college to apply to, to conduct his research. From the onset, eighteen years old, Alfred dove headlong into solving the issue of poverty that intertwined so intimately with magic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It all seems fine and dandy, sure,” Alfred leaned against his knees, resting his chin on his palms. “But it wasn’t until that Master that I knew what good magic people did.” He shrugged, unsure how to continue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they spoke, their stomachs had begun to twist in hunger. They had only had a sandwich the night before and nothing since, after all. The caravans pulled to a stop in a large clearing, dotted with a fairy circle of mushrooms. They drove the caravans in a tight circle, letting the horses free to roam nearby. Alfred and Arthur slipped out of the back of theirs, stretching their legs. They helped Felix pull bags of flour and sugar from the back while the brunette pulled out a cooking cauldron. Fen and the bird roamed the campsite, taking friendly pats where they could get them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They met up with Francis and Elizaveta, who explained to them while the rest of the women prepared to camp, that they would go past Paris and towards the East. “Paris is unsafe at this time,” Elizaveta explained, “It would not be wise to stop there, even just to buy a train ticket. We’ll take you beyond, even with your significance.” Elizaveta nodded at Arthur, “It is too dangerous for us to head all the way North. This way, you should be safe for most of your journey.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur thanked her. Elizaveta smiled, squeezed Francis’ arm, and left to tend to the fires. Once she left, Arthur and Alfred turned to Francis. They spoke at once:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you do it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you shag her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis had pulled his pipe out again and puffed determinedly on it. “No. You do not do that unless you know what you’re getting yourself into.” He said simply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizaveta, Felix, and the brunette called out to the three men, gesturing for them to follow. They took a hidden path towards an open lake, fed by a rushing waterfall. All around them, fireflies speckled the late evening sky. Elizaveta and Felix set aside several folded bundles of clothing they had been carrying. A few more women, including the blonde one named Emma, stopped by the water to fill clay flasks. Another woman brought an empty wicker basket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bathe, then eat.” Elizaveta said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the way?” Arthur asked, face feeling flushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We won’t watch.” Elizaveta responded, folding her arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis had already pulled off his deep blue robes and set them into the basket. Eliza had turned away, returning to the circle. “We’ll rest tonight then be on our way again by dawn.” She disappeared behind the great oak trees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis, down to nothing but a golden chain hanging from his neck, plunged into the water. He splashed a wave around him, submerged, before flinging his long, wet hair out of the water. He ran his hands through his scalp, sighing gratefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred met Arthur’s gaze, shrugged, and tugged his own robes off. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. Alfred’s body was toned and well-defined, but it was not that, nor the scars that crossed his back widely, nor the small tattoo at Alfred’s back, but his leg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the base of his left hip, his flesh stopped and was replaced by a prosthetic. It was a lovely thing, made of gold and ticking with what looked suspiciously like clockwork inside. It molded to match Alfred’s other, muscular leg. Rings of curled iron mimicked the dip of thigh into knee, of knee into the smooth mould of his calf. It was a near perfect imitation in form. Francis peered from the water, surprise lining his features. Alfred gently set his glasses away, and stepped into the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why the arrow didn’t hurt you,” Arthur said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred’s face twisted in uncertainty. He squinted in Arthur’s general direction. “Why don’t you just get in the water and stop making up excuses.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, I’m ok, I think I can take a sponge bath.” Arthur insisted, but the cool water lured him in and the sharp odor of his body reminded him the last bath he had was in another world. And who knows how often they bathe here. Before Arthur could decide, however, two pairs of hands grabbed him and tugged off his robes. Felix and the brunette twisted and yanked at Arthur, shoving him into the water and laughing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur stumbled face-first, planting ungracefully into the water. He jerked his head back, swimming until he was fully engulfed in the water. The three men glanced at Felix and the brunette, who exchanged a glance and began to strip down as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ladies, please, we’ll be done in a moment,” Alfred said, blurrily watching in horror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, of course, that’s when it struck Arthur. He knew these two. He knew Felix, he recognized that almost Polish accent. He recognized the tendency for cross dressing when the dress slipped off, revealing a slim, effeminate, but still male body. Followed by the brunette, male as well, leaping into the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re men!” Alfred cried out, his ears a burning red. He turned his head away from the splashing water. Felix and the brunette laughed wildly, watching the horror on the group’s faces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, did you think Eliza would let you filthy men in with a woman’s caravan.” The brunette grinned. “My name is Toris.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you tell us?” Alfred asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What fun is there in that?” Toris said, smiling. Happy. Arthur didn’t remember seeing the shy, soft-spoken young man so happy in a long time. He smiled at them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless, of course, that is your preference?” Felix said, noticing Arthur’s expression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No--uh, I... it’s only, it’s nice to meet such nice people. You all are very kind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Felix dunked his head in the water, his hair floating around him like butterfly wings. Toris swam back to the shore, his muscled back glistening with water. He reached towards the bundle of clothing, pulling out a brick of soap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought the dancers were only women?” Francis asked, leaning against a rock in the centre of the lack, his legs drifting at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t mind playing the part.” Toris said, handing the soap to Arthur. It smelled like crushed daisies. Felix splashed up behind Toris, flinging his arms over the other’s back and resting his chin on an offered shoulder. Arthur noticed the symbols on their left hands matched. Both had the same scarlet color, the same concentric circles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t mind either, it’s a joy. And this life, here, is much better for our people.” Felix said as well, kicking water behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur tried to soap up his hair, happy to smell good again. “Who are ‘your’ people?” He asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have so many names,” Toris said, “But I think the English call us ‘Heaven’s Mages’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a pleasant title.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is not a pleasant title?” He tried again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Felix tapped the symbol on his hand. Toris explained: “We use magic unlike your strange ways. Ours is founded in music, as you could tell, not in sight. That is just the first of many differences. Another is that all of us can use it. Unless you are hopelessly tone-deaf.” He amended at a whisper from Felix. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis and Alfred took turns with the slippery soap, revealing under the suds little flower petals embedded deep within the tallow. Over the scent of soap, the air was tinged with cooking meat and vegetables. The scent ignited something more powerful in Arthur than the hunger for knowledge. They finished bathing, noticing that the basket of clothing had been whisked away by one of the women while they had been bathing and replaced with a scratchy towel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clothing Eliza had brought them, much to Arthur’s pleasure, were soft cotton breeches and shirt, complete with a leather jerkin. Felix had climbed into a new, clean dress, this one decorated with white and little bells, while Toris had a similar outfit to Arthur and Alfred. Francis stared at the empty space where the basket once was, holding his new clothing while dripping water on to the grass. His bare back had little, star-shaped scars running along his shoulder and down his spine, curving… Arthur averted his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They didn’t steal your dress, Francis.” Arthur said. Francis turned to him. Arthur resolutely stared at Francis’ face. His hair hung wetly around his cheeks. His eyes seemed more intense than before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am aware. And, Arthur?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” Arthur watched Francis’ lips turn into a grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can look, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut the hell up!” Arthur snapped, stomping back towards the caravans, away from the nonsense and from his pounding heart. He did not need this right now, he told himself, no matter what his ridiculous heart said. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Interlude (What Are those Papers Anyway?)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Are you telling me, perhaps, that I will lose my job if I do not turn these papers in?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. We’ve been over this, Arthur.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm, yes, ah… Can you run it by me? Perhaps, ah, the whole point of these papers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not very amusing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I mean really. Really, pretend I’ve got a sudden bout of amnesia and have completely forgotten what ‘papers’ entails.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have other business to attend to, I don’t need you wasting me time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you plan to turn the telephone off,” Arthur cut a glance at Francis who sighed, shaking his head rather dramatically. “Ah, well, you know what I mean. Do tell me, though, what am I supposed to be doing? Just so I have an idea what you’re expecting. I mean, I already know what I’m doing, of course, but I would love a handy little refresher. It would make me focus better if I’m reminded about the severity of the situation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok, Kirkland, you’re telling me that you want </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> to refresh </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> on this paper you’ve been working on for 6 months. Your life’s work. The third installment of your Historique Britannica. You’ve done this two times before. Why in the world are you trying to weasel out of it now? I have slaved day and night to let you get published, unfair advantage that you have, and to let you keep more royalties than is good for you for your little pet project. And know you’re going to act stupid so you don’t have to turn a damn thing in? I am not a teacher--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm, yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm yes what?” Arthur imagined the secretary, for he had not a clue what her name was and Francis was extremely unhelpful, seething and frothing at the mouth. Any moment now and she might combust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m writing a little history am I? Of course, that focuses my mind completely. I thank you kindly. I will get to work writing my little manifesto, why don’t I, yes. I’ll get right to it.” But, by now, Arthur was talking to empty air. The secretary had hung up on him, and Arthur felt this wasn’t an uncommon practice for her. He turned to Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? Is that how I spend my time?” Arthur turned the little cellphone, fully charged by the green box in the corner, and such a mystery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis shrugged. “I had no clue."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Francis?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, do not take it apart." </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Impossible Soul [Part II]</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The cauldron bubbled and frothed. The tips of bones floated in and out of the red broth. Little basil leaves boats glided across the top. The smell floated out into the air, pouring all around them, awakening hunger afresh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur huddled between Francis and Alfred, hungrily slurping up his share of the stew. He watched as the woman named Emma ladled out bowlfuls for the others. Stir, scoop, pour. Stir, scoop, pour. Eliza came up last with the child Arthur had seen earlier that day. The child, wild-eyed and wary, cast glances at Arthur constantly, as if worried he would bite. She seemed to relax when she caught sight of Fen, the marvelous feline licking a small bowl of his own clean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Felix and Toris lounged in their own corners, sitting hip-to-hip. When the little girl brushed past, Felix said something to her that resulted in a shriek of giggles. The girl ran back to Eliza, curling into the woman’s side with a bowl in her lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma came next to Francis, having served herself last. She tilted her head back, letting her curls pour behind her, catching the firelight. She smiled at the three men. “You like my food?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s delicious, ma’am.” Alfred said, “Thank you kindly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that Elizaveta’s daughter?” Arthur asked, leaning over Francis. Emma scoffed at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She is the daughter to us all. We have no such thing as single families. We are not units, we are a whole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but is she her daughter?” Arthur asked. The little girl now watched them. She had the same ochre skin and brown hair as Elizaveta’s, but her eyes were different. All brown and no green. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We do not know.” Emma relented, “Ask her at your own risk, mortal man.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon the cauldron was emptied, mostly but not only through the men’s efforts. Once the fire began to settle and Emma removed the black pot, Elizaveta stood before the fire. She walked around the small pit, rocks and ash still flickering with embers, and began to sing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur was sure he hadn’t seen anyone bring out instruments, but there they were. Drums, a wiry violin-like instrument, a twisted flute, and a leather guitar appeared in their arms. Toris had the guitar and was strumming a complicated melody, his fingers a blur. Felix stood, clapping his hands and joining Eliza’s song. The music burst through the forest, through the leaves, weaving with the rhythm of trickling water, matching the crying cicadas, hooting with the owls, dancing through the starlight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is she singing?” Francis whispered. Alfred and Arthur leaned in to listen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The song of our people.” Emma hummed along a few notes before dipping her voice beneath the sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Heaven’s Mages, or, in their language and translated into the horrendously unmusical English comes across as Queen’s Calling, are an ancient people. Emma stretched her arms out, as if indicating a piece of time. The Queen’s Calling, more commonly known as the Dancers, are a group of women that travel from nation to nation. They have witnessed the rise and fall of Empires. They have sung of grief when great, benevolent rulers died. They have sung at weddings and coronations. Wherever the wind takes them, that is where they go, and that is where they sing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before all this, in the very beginning, the nameless Queen grew from the bones of the earth. She towered, alone, on this empty planet. The Queen, growing bored, stared into the endless, empty skies at night. During the day, she had the warm sun beaming down at her. She took a piece of the earth, her bones, and carved out a moon. It caught the sunlight and tossed it back to earth. Now, with light to see by, she carved out rivers with her fingers, grew forests with locks of her hair, breathed life into all beasts. Now she had water to sing her melodies, trees to feed the earth, and beasts to keep her company.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hear that? The line Eliza is singing and keeps repeating: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Against the sea, against the storm, I was dancing alone. </span>
  </em>
  <span>We think this one means her loneliness.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the beasts were not enough. They were dumb creatures, and could not speak to her. So, she decided to grab at stones and dust and desert sand. She mixed them together and made human kind. They looked like her, strange little things, and she loved them dearly. She taught them her song, for she was forever singing. Even when she slept, in the great canyons that made up her bed, her head resting against mountains, she continued to sing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her first group of humans were the purest, and they were us.” Emma said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur listened, enjoying the history, enjoying the lore. Alfred seemed to mirror his enjoyment, but Francis watched skeptically. “Do you really believe this?” He asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not finished.” Emma ignored him. “Hear that?” Now, Eliza sang a long, drowning note full of sweeping sorrow. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>The Age of Him, the Age of Him, He who ate her heart, who silenced the song.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next group of humans the Queen cooked up, now that her first batch had gone off to share the song through the rest of the world, were different. Perhaps she was distracted. Perhaps she longed for her old new friends, but they came out hateful and wicked. They were annoyed at her song and covered their ears. They hissed, bit, shouted. Her song became troubled when they grew in numbers, picked a king, and plotted against her. Angry, bitter kings who hefted their spears. The Queen did not feel any pain from the spears, of course, they were nothing but inconvenient pricks. Yet, her heart was breaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The song broke too, shattered and weepy, and so the original people traveled back as fast as they could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>We came too late, her heart was gone, her heart was gone.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The people came to find their great Queen sinking into death, a massive stake fashioned and piercing her heart. She continued to sing into death, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Do you hear the song I sing?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” And so she perished, bleeding her great heart into the oceans, pouring the last of life into it, so the whales and sharks and other lurking beasts came to life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why whales sing.” Emma said astutely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The whole cycle is backwards,” Francis commented. Arthur tried to speak up, but Francis overrode him. “Do you truly believe in these myths?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma furrowed her brows at him. “That is rude, mortal man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am only asking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believing it to be true or not is not the point. The point is we must continue to spread the song. The happiness. The fidelity. These are all important things.” Emma stood, leaving them, and picking up a new song. Eliza came in her stead, sitting next to Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Way to go, you bastard.” Arthur hissed at Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had to go and talk like that. It’s disrespectful, for one, and for a second it makes you look entirely asinine. Like a child angry everything isn’t exactly the way he wants things to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis watched him, wide-eyed, and looked towards Alfred for help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were bein’ a thorn in her side.” Alfred said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s she singing now?” Arthur asked Eliza, trying not to look at Francis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Protective chants.” Eliza said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see, yes,” Arthur sat down. Now, no one was strumming along. No one clapped or danced. Felix had returned to Toris’ side, who had put away his guitar. Emma sang alone, into the sky. Her voice was fair and even. It did not resonate with the same richness as Eliza’s, nor did it chirp and sway like Felix whenever he sang, but it was melodic and smooth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of storytelling,” Arthur whispered into Francis’ ear, “Remember how you said you would tell me everything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think now is a good time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When is it a good time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want to know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are we in a rush, for one. Why are you so hellbent on? How did you even get me here in the first place? What exactly are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza moved forwards, sitting in front of Arthur. Francis bristled. The remaining firelight coated her shoulders and poured between her elbows and hips. Arthur could not see her well in the half-dark, but could hear her clearly as he heard Fen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The man has many things he wants to tell you, but he has ties. He is sworn to silence.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that true?” Arthur looked at Francis, who stared dagger into Eliza. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is truth? Look, see.” Eliza took Arthur’s face in her hands, cupping his cheeks and pressing her fingertips into his hair. She began to sing again. He could see her lips move, but hear no sound. Her face receded from sight, and Arthur understood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not only song that drove them. The song wasn’t an ode to magic. The song was magic itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he plunged into darkness-- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you see?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--Eliza let go of Arthur’s face. He gasped awake, as if rising from a nightmare, and burst into painful, aching sobs. Tears streamed down his face, falling in heavy pearls onto his lap. He turned towards Francis, Alfred madly trying to figure out what had happened, head whipping from Eliza to Arthur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that what happened? I saw it all. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>felt it all.” Arthur cried out, wild eyes on Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you have to show him?” Francis snapped at Eliza, looking anywhere but at Arthur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because he is kind enough to break his heart over you. Because he is not a coward. Because you are.” Eliza said. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not much later, they all returned to their caravans. By now, Arthur’s hiccuping sobs had stopped and he had gathered himself enough to bid Eliza and Emma a calm good night. In the food caravan, Felix and Toris had the cots, which covered the entirety of empty space between the jugs and bags of flour. Felix dusted off some blankets and spread them down, laying them over several scratchy goose-feather pillows. He and Toris took the head of the caravan, nestled like spoons together. They had fallen asleep immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur lay as far as possible from Francis, curling into the right side of the caravan, leaving enough room to keep Alfred between them. Alfred had not yet come in, however, insisting he had something to do. The caravan smelled strongly of jerky and onions. Arthur rolled so his back was towards the rest of them, resting his head into the crook of his arms and his free hand on Fen’s softly rising and falling back. He pet his fur softly, feeling him purr through his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I saw what you saw. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fen said in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All of it?” Arthur whispered back, his throat tightening. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Enough. Do you think that’s what happened between them? Do you think that’s what Francis told Eliza when we first joined them?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I doubt anyone could keep secrets from that wonderful woman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Have you taken to her?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I respect her,” Arthur said, rubbing behind Fen’s ears. “I remember her from my world. She’s just as tough and strong. I think she's the soundest of all of us, sometimes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So she is. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fen’s ears swivelled. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do you hear that? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hear what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hear Alfred speaking.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is he saying?” Arthur strained his ears, barely hearing voices outside the caravans. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s talking to someone. I think it’s the one who cooked dinner. Emma? He’s saying something… Interesting.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it, feline?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hush, now, he’s coming. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The wooden boards croaked when Alfred climbed aboard. Arthur had never noticed before how heavy his steps were, how meaningful ever movement seemed to be. Alfred shifted around, quietly, taking off his glasses. His bird fluttered just outside, resting on the outside of the tent. Alfred crawled between Alfred and Francis, his leg creaking ever so quietly with the movement. He laid down, tugging the woolly blanket over them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur, you awake?” He whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur shifted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know damn well you’re awake,” Alfred said, but he did not sound angry. He sounded insistent, desperate almost. Arthur felt his body shiver at the tone of voice. He wanted to think of anything else, anything other than what he had seen. “What did you see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur curled further into himself, squishing Fen in the process. The cat growled, moving around in his arms to a more comfortable position. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really that bad, was it?” Alfred seemed to settle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur wanted to tell him, tell someone, but the fear of telling, the same fear that bound Francis, now scorched his tongue. He could feel his own body breaking beneath the weight of it. The unbearable silence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They rode like this for five days. Long hours of rattling in the caravan, minimal conversation passing between them. The song would call out when they set off in the mornings, after sleeping on the barely cushioned floors of the caravan, but would dwindle by afternoon. When they could, they would stop by streams and eat. Otherwise, Felix would toss wrapped bundles of food from cart to cart, calling out the high-pitched song to alert the women in front of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At nights, they’d stop under the security of trees when they could, circling the carts and eating by a fire. Each night, Eliza would ignite a new song, followed by a few more by other women, and always ending with Emma’s protective, ethereal chant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, the blur of forests thinned into large, open planes. Long winding roads strung out of the forest, in all directions, with one large one leading directly towards Paris. At least, that’s what Arthur was told was Paris.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The city, from here, looked like a smear of black paint against the canvas of green and blue. It spiked out of the ground, looming in shadow. Arthur, who had minimal conversation with Francis, turned to him now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re saying that is Paris?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s hideous. What happened? Where’s the Eiffel Tower?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur bit his lip, watching as the tarry streak in the horizon expanded into their field of view, consuming the skies, leaking. Arthur hated the sight of it, it dragged back the memory Eliza forced into his mind, reignited it. He could already feel himself in the cold, gilded suites that overlooked the greasy slums of the city, just below. Arthur turned his face away from the so-called Paris, instead sitting back in the caravan and watching the light pulse through the stretch of red fabric. It reminded him of shining a torch through his palm, the way his skin would glow red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The song the Dancers sang died out when they passed the city. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You grew up there?” Arthur asked, watching as Francis leaned against the side of the caravan. He had his night blue robe back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Up in all that pomp? Is that why you’re so unsympathetic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred interceded, “Look, you don’t have to fight him. We’ve all got our bad pasts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’ve seen what he lived through. All of it. I saw how you lived when you were ‘young’. I felt your anger, your malice, your ruthlessness. You don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself and your precious goals.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You saw what they did to me.” Francis spat back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously, stop.” Alfred begged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quiet!” Toris whispered urgently over his shoulder. He clutched the reins tightly, his knuckles white. “It’s dangerous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur, feeling his blood boiling, agreed, sitting back. He watched Francis angrily. Francis didn’t meet his gaze, instead kept staring out of the caravan. Alfred, sitting by Arthur, leaned closer. “Will you tell me what you saw?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t.” Arthur whispered back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re such a petulant child.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not being quiet!” Francis swung his arm back in a large arc, cinched up Arthur and Alfred as if they were bound by a rope. They struggled against the bindings, the invisible threads, their voices muffled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you’re doing back there, cease!” Felix called behind him, just as a flying, rapid object struck him in the side. The blow flung him into the caravan. Toris cried out, struck by the same flying object.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur and Alfred, bound, stared at Francis, shivering, trying to capture his attention. To have him release them so that they could help. But Francis’ attention had left them, and his courage dissolved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur’s eyes watered and spilled tears when he saw who stood there. When he saw the same man from his borrowed memory. He trembled against Alfred, who watched the man stomp closer to Francis, dip his head down, scarlet eyes flashing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Francis.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Beautiful City</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They were at a stand still. Alfred and Ivan had been scratching their heads late into the past few nights over the issue. Unable to pin any one thing down. They could take photographs, but Arthur noted their cameras were far too different. And, also, who takes pictures? Alfred, frustrated, went back to a convoluted theory that he saw in a movie and thought might work. Ivan shot the idea down before it could take off. They had contacted others, but only Feliciano was able to give them a clear reason. Most thought it was another of Alfred’s jokes, or Ivan intimidated them, and anyway they had a flight to catch and couldn’t stay…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a result, they were at a complete stand still. Yet, the flashes of pain made Arthur think the other him was out in the country. He could practically hear the Dancer’s lovely song. He even had a dream of the mysterious, lustrous Eliza telling him everything was in good hands. He believed it, at least, that’s why he agreed to go on a date trip with Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Paris. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought chilled him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paris, you say…?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. It is lovely this time of year.” Francis said, sipping wine. They sat across from each other in a corner side cafe. Arthur had discovered the wonders of fluffy cappuccinos and hot chocolates. Francis had discovered the wonders of Arthur. Not that they had done much aside from the soft kiss a few nights before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis felt intimidated and even shy around this new Arthur. The way he looked so innocent and kind, the way he marvelled at things Francis had long forgotten even existed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the kiss, they had fallen quickly asleep on the hotel bed, hands grasped together. Francis rolled on to the television remote, waking it up and flashing a vulgar, colorful cartoon. Arthur startled awake immediately, confused, frightened -- and then excited. Francis did not know much of electronics, but he tried to explain the basics. It was 3 AM and Francis tried haphazardly to explain electron movements and correct Arthur when he referred to it as “micro-fibres”. Francis loved it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, outside of the hotel, Arthur curled angel hair pasta onto a fork. It hovered halfway between his mouth and plate when Francis said “Paris”. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is Paris not a good place, where you’re from?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur shook his head. “It’s a living nightmare, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, ours is different. Come, enjoy it with me. Alfred and Ivan are within reach. Also, you would get to ride on an airplane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And aeroplane? Why, I’ve never ridden why. That alone could convince me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. I will contact Alfred and Ivan. Let them know where we are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long is it to Paris? A few days trip? I worry that’s too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, maybe ten hours by plane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How quickly they must fly!” Arthur beamed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis wanted to kiss him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So they left, taking a plane to France. The process, from airport to plane, amused Arthur. He watched as the little conveyor belt carted off his shoes and phone and luggage. He walked tentatively through the thousands of people that ignored him. Arthur enjoyed the airport food, too. Arthur even stopped by a tourist trap shop, watching the hats labelled with USA, stars and stripes, and even silly little burger doodles (which made Arthur want another burger, despite Francis’ insistence that there was better food to be had). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t take them home.” Francis reminded him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know. They’re just so adorable, aren’t they? We don’t have such things. Not many people travel unless they’re Masters, or quite rich. You know, the college has this one garden that captures the attention of people travelling through the country. Often, they linger and stare and admire. The groundskeeper loves to tend to it.” Arthur rambled on, describing the topiaries in great detail. He especially liked the ones that used flowers for eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis lowered his head and quickly kissed Arthur’s cheek. Arthur, flushed red, stopped mid-ramble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boarding the plane proved to be another adventure. Francis, being Francis, had selected first class seats for them. Arthur gawked around the interior, commenting on the number of seats. “All I’ve seen is little bi-planes or aeroplanes with an empty space, maybe two or three chairs. And only when they’re still on the ground.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bag of goodies also proved endlessly amusing to Arthur. He took out the socks, the eye mask, the tiny toothbrush and equally tiny toothpaste tube. Arthur slipped his shoes off, sliding into the smooth fabric of the bright purple socks. When the lights dimmed and the ovular windows shut tight, Arthur slipped into sleep like clockwork. His head rested against Francis’ shoulder, the top of his head brushing against Francis’ chin. Francis pressed a kiss to the crown of Arthur’s head, quickly, snatching the affection up as it came. Because it was not meant to last, Francis told himself, because it felt too good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Arthur woke for breakfast on a tiny tray, complete with fake silver forks and roasted potatoes that were a touch too soggy, Francis asked Arthur about his life. Before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean my childhood? My journey to where I was?” Arthur asked, tearing a packet of salt and sprinkling his food with it. He stabbed it with the weak prongs of his fork. “Or do you mean what kind of life I led day-to-day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How you grew up, where you were. I knew the other Arthur practically since he came into being. What about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I grew up in a fishing village, at the very port of the Brits. My father took odd jobs, here and there, with me helping him out. My mother…” Arthur couldn’t encapsulate his mother in a few words. He knew so little of her, as she was always absent doing whatever it was great witches did. She came by on Arthur’s birthdays and a few other times a year, happy to see Arthur and his father, but vanishing in the night before Arthur, hardly five, could beg her to stay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had his chance to ask his mother to stay, but he was ten years old and beyond begging. This was after Arthur had nearly drowned in the sea. After his father took up masonwork instead, deep in the heart of the city and closer to the college. Arthur’s mother came by, saw that Arthur could see the threads of magic that bound their world so tightly, and taught him what she could. She leaned over his head, her hair trailing all around him like a waterfall of fire. She guided his hands with her own. She pointed out how to tell which threads were the strongest and would not shatter when they were touched. How to track where each one led, where it ended and where it began. How to train your eye to spot them at a moment’s notice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The work of understanding magic was tiresome. After days of working with his father laying bricks and planks of wood, he would spend his afternoon to evening to late night with his mother, working on the unseen. He slept quickly and never enough. Yet, he had his mother home. He didn’t see her during the days, but she was always by the hearth when he and his father returned from working.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Arthur could work the threads seamlessly with his eyes closed. She smiled at him warmly, embracing him into her arms, and was gone by the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you miss her?” Francis asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure if I do. She helped me get into the college and work my way up. I am grateful to her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In Paris, Arthur watched wide-eyed, fish out of water, stranger in a strange land. Francis managed to take Arthur’s bag from him and take it to his apartment, but Arthur wouldn’t go in yet. He had so many things to see and too few hours to do so. Francis led him around the city for some time, but Arthur grew impatient and tugged him, instead. Through the criss-crossing streets, under the bridges, to the river, and to the Eiffel Tower (although Arthur refused to go all the way up). Arthur wanted to try all the foods he could, all the wines, all the fresh fruits and baked bread. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis watched in joy as Arthur ogled over the alabaster statues in the Louvre. Pointed to the Greek mythos brought to life before him. Gazed over the heads of millions crowded in to see the Mona Lisa, decided it was not worth the wait to shimmy up front, and asked what pastries were the best and closest. The latter factor being more pertinent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And this is my apartment.” Francis said, unlocking the door and revealing a chic, Parisian apartment. Molten sunbeams pooled on the floor and countertops. The city bustled noisily just below, sounds leaking through a wide, white-trimmed window. Arthur perched against the windowsill, poking his head out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s so lovely here, dear.” Arthur said, feeling the air brush against his cheeks. “I’ve been so lonely since I ended up here. But today, oh, thank you.” He turned and approached Francis, touching his cheek and neck and shoulder bones. “Thank you. I’ve never seen anything like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better than your Paris?” Francis said, resting his hands on Arthur’s hips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leagues better, Francis.” Arthur said softly, “So much safer. This world, it’s strange and different and lonely. But it’s lovely in its own ways, too. You’re magical without having magic. It’s fascinating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis dipped his head lower. “You know…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you dare.” But Francis did dare, and Arthur did, too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hours later, in the slim hours that were not quite night nor were they morning, Arthur shifted under the covers, curling his body into Francis’ and trembling. Francis woke, twisting to face Arthur, grasping his shoulders. Arthur was paler and milkier in the moonlight, emerald eyes flashing in fear, cat-like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s in Paris.” Arthur said, holding Francis’ hand in both of his own. “He shouldn’t be there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you think that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I felt it. I dreamt it. Maybe dreaming is the answer?” Arthur leapt out of bed, groping for his phone in the semi-darkness. He tugged the blankets over with him, exposing Francis’ bare thighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What time is it where they are?” Arthur asked, “Oh, doesn’t matter,” He picked up the phone and listened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred’s voice bubbled up on the other side. “Hey! What’s up? Isn’t it the middle of the night for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. But, listen, Alfred. I dreamt he was here. He is here. In Paris, I mean. Not this Paris, the other one. That means he’s trapped here. Why don’t you come here? We can figure this out better. And quicker. We’re more aligned now, right?” Arthur said frantically, hugging the blankets to his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis reclined next to him, propping his head up with his elbow. Wisps of late-night light crawled over Arthur’s shoulder. His phone glowed at his ear, casting a green tint against his neck. Francis reached out to touch Arthur’s shoulder blade, where the skin sloped down to the bumps of his spine. He melted into his touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis listened as Alfred made plans to come, with Ivan, to Paris as soon as they could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t stay.” Francis said, mostly to himself, watching as Arthur nodded eagerly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he hung up, Arthur turned to him, running his fingers down Francis’ chin. “Did you say something, dearie?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no. You see, excited.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I can go home, see Fen, see my world again. Hopefully, if it all works out.” Arthur smiled, laying back down to face Francis. His smile faltered. “Though, I suppose it’s not all bad here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Francis gathered Arthur into his arms and held him close, pressing his face into Arthur’s hair. “I know.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Hunter and Hunted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The man with the scarlet eyes who hunched in the caravan pulled a monocle from his pocket. He held it in front of his eyes, catching light on the bronze edges. He wore a full black coat that split into twin tails just below his hips. Beneath the buttoned down front of the coat, black breeches melted into black boots. Only scarlet eyes hidden by silvery hair demonstrated any sort of color. Arthur recognized him immediately, squirming in the threaded binds that Francis had woven about him. Francis, frightened to death, could only stare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man watched Francis, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You are in the wrong place, I am afraid. And you have prisoners, it seems.” He turned towards Alfred and Arthur, still tied up. Behind him, flashes of black cloth gathered around the caravans. The Dancers cried out, screaming against the ropes that tightened around their hands and arms. In the distance, Arthur could barely see more men shove over the frontmost caravan, toppling it and startling the horses. He heard Eliza yell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis moved forwards, but too slowly. A slash of silver sword swung from the stranger (Ivan? Ivan. Arthur thought frantically. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be.) cut through the air, just before Francis’ neck. It glinted dangerously under Francis’ chin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still wearing those robes?” The man tucked the monocle into his breast pocket and cut the sword down, slashing down the robes fronts. Francis gasped, grabbing at the fabric as it fell away from his shoulders, exposing the gold chain at his neck. The man called out to the other men who swarmed forwards, grabbing at Francis, pointing at Alfred and Arthur. The stranger said something in reply, shoving Francis out the caravan along with the men. Francis cast a look behind him, meeting Arthur’s eyes. Arthur gave a minute nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, the man turned to them. He used his sword, a curved silver sabre, and sliced the threads. As the bindings from Alfred’s mouth fell away, his curiosity got the best of him. “Your sword can cut magic?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It can cut anything.” The man said, cutting the bindings away from Arthur next. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur said nothing, watching in terror as the man motioned for them to follow. He wondered where Fen was. Where Alfred’s bird had gone. Neither were in sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My name is Ivan the Hunter and I apologize you had to face whatever was done to you by that despicable, inhuman thing.” Alfred nudged Arthur to follow, to play along. “It’s cruel to use weapons you cannot even see, no?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Dancers were pushed into hefty, black motorized vehicles that were not quite automobiles, nor were they horse-drawn carriages. The men, all silvery and scarlet-eyed, nodded to Ivan as he passed, the obvious leader. He led Alfred and Arthur to a smaller vehicle, allowing them to get in first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drove away, leaving the splintered caravans and crying horses in their wake. Everyone had been picked clean. Arthur wondered what had happened to that little girl. Alfred, however, had his face astutely forwards, his eyes oddly glazed over. Ivan drove the vehicle, moving many pegs and buttons, causing a whirring sound to come to life in what supposedly an engine. It rattled as it moved, but otherwise went smooth enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan spoke to them politely and softly, as he would a frightened animal. He asked if they had been fed, to which they shyly admitted they hadn’t had anything since the night before, omitting that it was because they slept through breakfast. He asked if they were very far from home, which he judged was true based on the Brit and Colonial accents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those damned magicians,” he spat the word as Paris loomed ahead of them. “All they do is sit on their pedestal, above every one of us normal human beings. They suck up the wealth and refuse to share it… But, I am sure you already know this, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred nodded, “Yes, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He diverged from the path the other vehicles took, driving straight through into the city. They drove from the open fields with grazing cows and sheep, and into the beginning of the city. All around them were the “slums”, or the “debris” Arthur remembered hearing, when Eliza had touched his face. Small, roughly thrown together shacks that stood close to and then closer and then atop one another the closer they drove into the heart of the city. The road Ivan took was speckled with people who stood at the sides, waved, and cheered as Ivan drove past. He stuck his hand out the window, waving as he did so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the slums soon ended, the congested buildings suddenly ending with a circular open field just under looping, clean-looking highways. The heart of the city was protected by a circular barrier just beyond the highways that went in and out. Ivan drove them inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur felt like he was driving from ruinous, filthy streets and directly into a five-star hotel. The heart of the city was a massive, singular building much like a department store. The first half of it was small apartments accessible by glass elevators, rising up on all sides. The other half was shops, offices, restaurants, and anything else commercial. When Arthur looked up, after Ivan left the car to be tended to by some unseen worker, he saw the walls curving into a small speck of sky. It was well lit indoors, but it still felt like a massive building and not a city. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan did not treat them poorly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took them to a pale-white apartment at the highest level. It was furnished modestly and nicely. It did not look lived in. He fed them, gave them new clothing, and even offered them to shower in a bathroom decorated with blue and white tiles. They refused the last offer, instead eyeing the dinner plates that a pair of servants placed on white table. The table was decorated with a vase of delicate, pale pink snapdragons. Most of them were alive in the bundle, but a few wilted at the lip of the face, their petals turned to grey skulls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This place is very nice, sir.” Alfred said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. I don’t live here often, but when I come by it is nice to look at.” Ivan poured them shot glasses of clear liquor. “I want to make you feel comfortable here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Arthur whispered, watching the liquid slosh into the cup. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will find some place for you, and a way to get you home.” Ivan lifted his cup. “Cheers.” He downed the liquid. Alfred mirrored Ivan’s actions, downing the drink as well. Arthur sipped his slowly, face twisting at the bitterness. It reminded him of vodka, but sweeter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the clear liquid, Arthur began to have a glimmer of a plan. He tried a glance at Alfred, but the man seemed completely shut down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er, Ivan?” Arthur asked, turning back to his plate. The food was buttery and rich. It filled Arthur’s stomach, despite how it twisted and writhed in knots. He wanted to know where Francis was. He wanted to know what Ivan would do to them. Right now, it seemed that Ivan would tend to them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But why was he being so kind? The initial reaction of fear, the sight of Ivan leaning into the caravan that dragged pieces of that blasted memory up, had now faded. He wasn’t even sure if this man was the same as the one from his memory. All of these “Hunters” had the same scarlet eyes and hair. Arthur tried to reach back but even now the memory was receding. He could only feel the pain. And, this man had kidnapped his friends. And, he was doing god knows what with Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why wasn’t Arthur so afraid anymore?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan leaned against the counter. “Yes?” He spoke patiently, though Arthur was certain that wasn't the first time he’d said it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, my mind is gone… Can you tell me why you</span>
  <em>
    <span> saved</span>
  </em>
  <span> us?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why wouldn’t I? It is my duty. We hunt them and save whatever they have captured.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur pretended to consider, chewing his lip and looking away. “What were they going to do to us?” Arthur asked, trying to sound frightened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred stared blankly ahead, mechanically chewing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They did not tell you a single thing, did they?” Ivan said, lips curling in disgust. “Of course not. People like you are beneath them. You cannot see their ‘magic’ and so you cannot see the world they live in. Of course, they likely would have kept you a slave. I do not know what Heaven’s Mages do, but they are known for taking others into their own. We never see them again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was… what was Francis going to do with us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Use you. I’m sure. That man thinks himself a researcher. I tried to stop him before when he was working on a project, that blue gown? But, it was no use. You cannot untrain a man from ‘magic’.” As Ivan spoke, Arthur felt his spine tingle. The memory. Eliza’s hands on his face. Flashes of light, sound, all from Francis’ eyes. He could feel the pain in his heart as if it was his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why won’t you </span>
  </em>
  <span>listen</span>
  <em>
    <span>?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Listen to you rave? Listen to you defend this… this thing and expect me to give you permission to keep going?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No--</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright? He did not do anything to you?” Ivan said, crouching by Arthur, touching his hand lightly. Ivan’s hands were scarred. Several of his fingers were knobby and crooked, like they had been broken many times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m just tired, truly. I want to know, Ivan, what will you do with them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They will be justly punished.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you kill them?” Arthur imagined their faces. He imagined the worst. And he was up here, eating rich food and communicating with the enemy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan looked confused. “Kill them? No. We are not the monsters. They will repent. They will work for us.” Ivan watched Arthur’s face for a moment. “Do you want to see them? Will this help you realize that you are truly safe? I know my words can seem empty. I may seem like another threat. I cannot imagine what you have seen, but I have had my fair share of run ins. Especially with that man. I know I would feel safer knowing the threat has been laid to rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur listened to Ivan speak. His fear felt strained and fake. How was he supposed to be afraid of a man like this? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed to find them. Find where they are, and how to get them out. Then continue North. Arthur looked again around him, at the plate of food, at the furnished apartment that was most definitely not a caravan. After all, there was no guarantee he could return to his real home. What would be so bad about this place? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes please.” Arthur said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well, tomorrow I will take you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ivan took them to a lower level. Arthur’s stomach lurched in the elevator, ringing through his head with vertigo. He hated going down elevators. Once there, Ivan led them through a wide hallway, filled with several couples who greeted Ivan happily, bowing and chattering in French. The strangers wore silken clothing, brilliantly colored and designed with upside down flowers. The women wore elegant dresses and the men wore robes. Again, Arthur wondered at this world’s penchant for pants-less fashion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must be very grateful to have Ivan looking after you.” A woman said in rough English, touching Arthur’s arm gently. Others commented the same way, bowing slightly before Ivan and caressing Arthur and Alfred’s arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The apartment matched Ivan’s almost identically. Furnished minimally, with a kitchen, bathroom, living room, and small bedroom. A single bed. Ivan shut the door behind them, bidding them a good night, and promising to return in the morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur rounded on Alfred, who slumped against the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alfred, what are you doing?” Arthur said, sitting next to Alfred. Alfred flinched against his touch, moving away. A trail of tears glistened on his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” he whispered, “Back home I always tended to you. You were a little brat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred half-laughed half-sobbed. “Was I, now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but a brave brat. And you’re not so different.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m weak. I’ve always been weak.” Alfred said into his hands. “I can’t handle him. He reminds me too much of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him,</span>
  </em>
  <span> so I just turn right off. It’s like my soul leaves my body and my body’s trying to figure out how to work.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur rubbed his back, not sure what to say. He spoke quietly next to Alfred’s ear, not certain that he wouldn’t be overheard or watched, “Besides, he thinks we were kidnapped and enslaved. So he has pity for us. Play along until we can leave. With everyone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Also, I think he thinks we’re a couple. There is only one bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred let himself laugh again, weakly. “Of course. I can sleep on the couch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can shove some pillows between us. We slept in a cramped caravan. Why worry about this?” Arthur said, touching Alfred’s hair and pulling his bangs from his face. He removed Alfred’s spectacles, steamed from his tears, and set them aside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Arthur felt himself centuries younger, holding a small Alfred in his arms who shivered against a fever. He could feel the crackling heat of the fireplace, flicking against the heat of the child in his arms. He used a wet rag to dampen his brow, humming an off-beat lullaby to him, worrying as the child’s skin paled. Outside, the wind howled and threw snow against the window. The world, a blur of white, made it impossible for the town doctor to come racing. Soon, it would break, and Alfred would ricochet out of the house and into the world. The snow would melt and the rain would fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This wasn’t the same Alfred, Arthur reminded himself, this was a different man with a different story. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The golden lights flickered, their copper wiring buzzing gently. “Let’s get to bed,” Arthur said, helping Alfred to his feet. “Maybe bathe first. It would be nice to have running water.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you come with me, please?” Alfred asked, “Just outside the door?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fine.” Arthur pulled up a kitchen chair next to the bathroom door, leaning it against the wall. As the door shut, Arthur saw a pile of breeches fall to the floor, exposing a flash of the brass leg, unreal and ticking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water gurgled to life. The pipes in the building loudly whooshed to life. Arthur wondered how the electricity in this world worked, it seemed to be both clock-work and copper based. Judging by the lighting and Alfred’s leg, at least. Behind the door, over the rushing water, Arthur heard weeping. He rested his head against the door, listening to Alfred cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alfred, why are you so afraid?” He said, not sure if Alfred could hear. “I’m going to guess you never gave me the entire story. Not to your past, nor to your present. I imagine you went with us more than simply to see where this would go. Why give up on stability and go cross-country with some strange man? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But, it doesn’t matter. Because you have courage. More than I do. I remember, the other you, the other you is headstrong and relentless. You remind me of him. You make me feel less homesick.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pipes shut off with a last, loud hiss. Alfred opened the door, bringing out a cloud of steam with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you mean that, really and truly?” He squinted at Arthur, his glasses sitting on the sink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, oh goodness Alfred, I didn’t think you could hear me.” Arthur flushed red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis was telling me how mean you were. How the other Arthur was nicer. But I think that’s all talk and no truth. You are kind.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He said I was mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did yell at him and ignore him for a few days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He deserved it!” Arthur stood, shoving the chair back. “I’m going to bed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Three stories below, Francis struggled against leather straps that bound his wrists and ankles. The chilled metal of the chair bit against his bare skin. He had lost his robe, but the gold chain on his neck remained. All around him, the room was dim. A few lights in a distant hall glinted off the chair he was bound to. Besides that, he could not see any threads. Usually they were so bright and brilliant, spiderwebs that connected the world. But this place was empty. Purposefully empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard Ivan’s boots before he saw them. He felt the sword tip at his neck before he saw the gleam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re getting better at this, Ivan.” Francis said. “Did you hurt them, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your specimens? One who doesn’t belong here and one who is completely broken?” Ivan said. Now Francis could see him in the semi darkness. His eyes flashed wildly, dangerously. Francis, once again, wondered just how much Eliza showed Arthur. “I am not you.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. What Asbolus Saw</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The morning before Arthur and Francis were to meet Alfred at a quaint cafe not too far from Notre Dame, as described by Francis, Arthur found himself alone in the bed. He grasped the bedsheets next to him in a moment’s panic, pressing his palm against the indentation where a body had once been. The sheets were still warm, and Arthur could smell something cooking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced down the hallway towards the kitchen, directly in his line of sight, and caught sight of Francis humming to himself. He moved through the counters, cutting something unseen. Next to him, Arthur caught sight of a fresh baguette, wrapped in brown paper. Francis began to sing to himself, not too loud, but enough that Arthur suspected Francis did not know he was awake yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>C’est dur de mourir au printemps, tu sais…” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Truly a slice of pleasure.” Arthur said to himself, moving silently into his clothing. The bedroom was now well-lit in the morning. The bedclothes neatly placed back on Francis’ side, even the pillow was fluffed back into shape. Arthur reached for his socks, only to find they were no longer bundled next to the pair of fluffy slippers. Arthur crouched down, peering under the bed. He reached into the darkness, his fingers brushing against the socks as well as the unpleasant, dry scrape of cardboard. “No wonder it’s so bumpy.” Arthur reached further in, pulling out a heavy cardboard box. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur peered inside its contents, finding stacks of pictures, notebooks, papers, and a box. The box was smooth and deep black, reminding Arthur of something one would keep jewelry in. Arthur glanced at the picture, preparing to put them in the closet so at least they wouldn’t disrupt the mattress, when he paused. The first was a picture, in the same smooth paper that Alfred had in his study, of Francis with his arms around Arthur, Alfred, and another person Arthur did not know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur picked up the photograph, looking at the yellowed image, fading the smiles and yellowing their hair. He flipped the picture around, noticing black penmanship scrawled across the back. “Love you through eternity?” Arthur read, touching the front again. He set it back in the box, tucking it gently into the stack of photographs between several notebooks and a bundle of loose papers bounded by a thin rubber band. Arthur wondered at the box. In the kitchen, he could still hear Francis humming and moving along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his mind, he heard Fen once again reproach him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really? Looking through a man’s things? </span>
  </em>
  <span>To which Arthur would agree. He decided to ask Francis about it. Leaving the box untouched, he went into the kitchen in his bare feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, Arthur.” Francis said cheerfully, laying out the table. He placed slices of cheese with a bundle of grapes, sliced bread, two omelettes neatly folded into semi-circles, and a lone croissant, leaking chocolate syrup, on Arthur’s plate. Everything in its place, everything fresh and crispy. “I hope you like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While they ate, Arthur brought up the box. “I didn’t look through much, of course, only that I saw a picture of you, Alfred, some stranger,  and I, well, Arthur. I had to look, since it had my face, now didn’t I? I apologize, but I also saw a box. Such a lovely thing.” Arthur beamed at Francis, who stared at him blankly. “I want to know what’s inside, is all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t open it?” Francis asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis, then, laughed. “Of course you wouldn’t. I will show you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it turns out, the little black box was unremarkable. It contained a golden chain and, under a red felt flap, a ring ornamented with a single, tiny diamond. Arthur picked the ring up holding it in his palm. They sat on the bedroom floor, the cardboard box between them, its contents exposed. Francis leaned his back against the side of the bed. “Did you have someone to propose to?” Arthur asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To be honest, I expected you not to even use rings in your world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now why would you say that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So much is different between our world and yours. You say your electricity is different, your Paris is different, your world is different altogether. Small things like this, I expect to be different.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, some people use rings. Jewelry is a thing of status. If you’re wealthy, you wear all sorts of things. Rings, however, can mean many different things. Different if you’re out at sea versus on land, of course. Mostly, rings are used for proposals. Though, you're not completely wrong. There is a culture of people that do not use rings. They draw these symbols on the back of their hands. It’s a binding spell. ‘As long as you live, so shall I’.” Arthur traced two concentric circles on the back of his hand. “Usually in red. Red is the color of life, of blood.” Francis nodded along, glancing at the back of his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur touched the engraving inside the ring’s band: CI. The Roman numeral for 101. Arthur wondered what the significance was. 101st date, maybe? 101st kiss? “101 what?” Arthur asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis waved his hand flippantly. “It’s a long story. Not for now. We should finish up breakfast and get going. Alfred messaged me, said he is on his way in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur stopped him by holding his arm out. “Hold on, now, may I ask about these?” Arthur indicated the bundles of papers. “I didn’t read a thing, mind, but I am absolutely curious.” Francis nodded at him. Arthur pulled out one of the stacks, pulling out a paper. Black pen marked the thin piece of paper in right-slanted, familiar handwriting. “Are you a budding poet?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis took the paper, glancing at it. “No, I did not write this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, don’t be all embarrassed, dearie. It is your handwriting. I remember how you write. Also, what a lovely poem, odd that you would write it in Latin.” Arthur looked at the next paper. “This one too. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dionysis, steadfast, upon the highest tower, downward gazed.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not write these, Arthur.” Francis repeated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodness, I mean really these are very lovely.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot tell if you’re mocking me.” Francis said, looking at the papers that Arthur flipped through, reading each on first in Latin, then translating it quickly. “Though I am impressed you know Latin so well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur shrugged, “Of course I do. It is all they speak in Rome, and half of my works have to be sent there anyway. I do not trust the scribes to translate it very well. The eunuchs are quite particular, up there.” Arthur sat up and reached over, touching Francis' cheek. “You don’t have to hide a thing from me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand this,” Francis held Arthur’s hand in his own. “But I really did not write these. For months, starting five or so years ago, these little notes just kept showing up. I would water a plant and I would find one sticking from the dirt. I really thought for a while I had gotten a little too deep into my drink and a little too deep into a poetic frenzy. But, truly, I do not remember writing a single one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm, that’s odd. But, this really does look just like your handwriting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It does not.” Francis took a notebook from the box and a pen from the nightstand. He rifled through the pages, revealing page after page, each densely crowded with handwriting. Francis picked one of the pieces of paper and, on a mostly empty page, re-wrote it. He turned it back to Arthur, placing the scrap on top of his notebook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was almost the exact same, but where the scrap of paper slanted right, Francis’ newly written note slanted left. Arthur wondered why it had jumped out at him so fiercely. Had he even seen Francis write anything? He wasn’t sure, then. He looked again at the fragment of a poem, with looped E’s, curled C’s, and tall L’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“But soft, you say, what light threads through.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Did you ever--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I tried to put them all together.” Francis explained. “I set them in every order, from when I first found them to when they stopped coming, a month or so ago. But it was to no use. It is long and rambling. And I do not believe it is meant to make any sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was someone coming into your home and shoving poetry in your house? I think not! I think this has a clear, distinct purpose.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am sure. Now, we must get going. We will be late.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They put away the box and what remained of breakfast, Arthur shoving the last of his food into his mouth, dressed in light jackets, and headed out. Alfred had messaged Francis, mentioning that they would wait for him at so-and-so cafe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they walked, Arthur and Francis talked about this and that and nothing altogether. Arthur grasped his hand to squeeze, letting go when strangers passed. However, as they approached a bridge cutting across the Seine, the waters below glistening in the afternoon sun, Arthur noticed that all the people never seemed to look at them. People, couples, children would all walk directly towards Francis and Arthur before abruptly changing course, walking around them like water might glide around a rock. Street performers made eye-contact with tourists, nodding at their upturned hats or open violin cases, but no pair of eyes made it to Arthur or Francis. Arthur hooked his arm into Francis’ elbow, leaning close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can no one see us?” Arthur whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not unless you want to be seen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How odd,” Arthur muttered, watching as a dark cloud passed over them, wondering if it might rain. A shiver passed through his body. He squeezed Francis’ arm tighter. Another shadow passed over them. He shivered again. “Something is wrong.” He whispered, trying to urge Francis to walk faster. Francis followed along, his heels clicking against the stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shadows grew larger and larger, enveloping them entirely. Arthur let go of Francis, turning his head up, and spotting the moving shadow. Twisted and gaping and coming directly for them. “What the hell? Carrion?” Arthur gasped, the air escaping his lungs in a whoosh as the great bird swooped into him. Francis yelped, somewhere far away. Arthur pressed his hands into his chest, grasping at the threads of magic until he caught hold of something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tossing them out of his body, he focused on what he did best: the physical. The threads, sharpened to points, latched onto the creature. They dug into its body. Arthur yelped as pain seared through his chest, worsened the further the threads escaped him. His nose felt hot and wet. He reached further into the threads inside of him and grabbed what he could as they continued to unravel, the carrion fluttering madly overhead, its claws reaching for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tossed another bundle of threads--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tightening them as they looped around its clawed, shadowy feet--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yanking him off his feet, towards the edge of the bridge, his body bending over the side, his threads spilling out of him. His vision began to blur, coming in and out of focus. The Carrion screeched madly, flapping its great wings and pulling out into the river, out and out and out. Arthur heard Francis yelling behind him. The threads were unravelling through his hands. They made such poor ropes, Arthur lamented, feeling them tug against the skin of his palms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It pulled hard enough, flipping Arthur over the bridge and head-first into the water’s cold face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Arthur was not listening. He tightened the bonds on the bird just as he met the water, hardening the thread and making them really, truly physical. He dragged the bird down with him into the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes burning against the dirty water, he struggled to toss bindings against the bird’s beak, trying desperately to pin where the beak was on the messy, bleak conglomerate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bubbles escaped one last time from its mouth before Arthur tightened it, floating in the black water. Once Arthur was certain the creature would no longer flap out, he released the threads, dragging them back into him, struggling back to land. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a frightening moment, he forgot which way was up and which was down, having been powered by pure adrenaline that, by now, was steadily seeping out of him along with every last molecule of oxygen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur tossed on the last bit of his thread up, the effort of it worsening his exertion, until it broke the surface of the water. He tugged upwards, upwards, upwards endlessly until, finally, he surfaced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head burst through the surface of the water. He scrabbled, gulping in air and some dirty river water too, his hands slapping against a concrete surface. He grasped for purchase, hauling himself up. Feeling very much like a beached whale, he collapsed against the cobblestones. Water splashed around him on all sides, soaking the stones. He heard footsteps coming towards him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone grabbed his shoulders, lifting him up to his feet. Another pair of hands shoved Arthur’s soaking hair from his face. Still another stripped him of his ruined coat. Arthur, meanwhile, focused on recollecting the threads that had spilled from him, the last connection he had to his world. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once his head cleared, he found himself staring into a pair of bright blue eyes. “Arthur? Arthur? You ok?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur nodded, once, before doubling over and retching river water on to the stones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell, dude? I didn’t know you could do that.” Alfred said. “We saw it, we were coming towards you and bam, this huge bird attacked you and you just lassoed it. It was totally wicked and terrifying.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, dearie, I had no clue I could do that either,” Arthur said once he finished retching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt a hand on his back, Francis, “We should get you showered.” He said, “I don’t think that water is good for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur shook his head, shivering in the cold that dripped through his flesh and straight to his bones. His muscles ached and rivulets of blood mixed with water ran down his front. Arthur felt miserable. “Y-y-you know,” he said through chattering teeth, “I’m lucky to have brought s-s-some magic with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lunch forgone and back in Francis’ apartment, Arthur once again enjoyed the easy way the taps of warm water worked in this world. He shut his eyes and let the warm water seep through his skin, cradling his bones, washing away the blackened water. He rubbed at his nose, happy to find nothing had been broken, despite the persistent bleeding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took the soap and scraped at his body. He scrubbed his arms until his skin protested with red warmth, then went to his chest. He gazed at it. The same chest he knew, undefined muscles and slightly visible rib cage, pale skin speckled with light freckles. No sign that any skin had been broken, aside from some bruising at his shoulders where the creature had knocked into him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He touched his sternum and focused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Water splashed against his body, steaming the shower, and glistening against the silken threads that tugged from his body. He drew them out, slowly. They listened to his fingertips, like any threads in his world knew to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur wondered why it had tucked away in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rules of magic in his world were simple: you see it or you don’t. If you see it, you see it everywhere. The threads lined the world like massive spider webs, connecting everything together. Every single object could be connected by a thread. That is, except humans. Any budding magician, or Weaver, or Seamstress, whatever they called themselves, knew this. Threads existed out of the body and all around them. Arthur had never heard anyone use threads from their own body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the ripping, shredding pain of only losing a measure of it today, Arthur could imagine why a theory for it was never developed. Arthur pushed the threads back in, looking down his arms. He knew these arms, the barely visible blue strips of veins that ran along the forearm, hidden in the crook of the elbows, difficult to find under a bulging tendon. Yet, if he focused he could see a line of thread run through his arms, too… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>had to</span>
  </em>
  <span> have brought it with me.” Arthur thought, shutting off the water and reaching for the towel. Once the noise from hissing water stopped, Arthur could make out voices in the hallway. Leaking under the door like steam, he caught Alfred’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... doing him? That’s a really bad idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur’s heart hopped into his throat. He rubbed his hair with the towel, moving quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do not understand, Alfred.” Francis’ voice came through. Arthur heard the dull echo of Ivan’s rumbling voice. “No, I understand. It’s temporary…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cut it off now.” Alfred urged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur stared glanced into the steamed mirror, seeing the foggy shadows of himself. The smear of blonde hair and green eyes, undistinguishable. He wondered who he was. He certainly wasn’t the “Arthur” they knew. He wasn’t sure who he was, really, either. He’d never fought anything so much as a bathroom spider in his life before. He continued to stare at the hazy image in the mirror, watching the edges clear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled his clothing on and opened the door, catching the group of three sitting on the couch. They started when they saw him. Francis leapt to his feet and approached him, grasping Arthur’s shoulders. He searched Arthur’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, are you?” Alfred asked from the couch. “I have not seen Arthur fight in a long, long time. At least, not like fight-fight with just your body.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you?” Arthur managed, feeling Francis’ warm palms. Wondering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what was that thing?” Alfred continued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carrion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok, thanks, what are Carrion?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur sat on the couch, curling his feet under him, careful not to brush against Francis. “I do not know. They’re folklore. Weapons used by this group of people called ‘Hunters’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would they do that?” Alfred asked, holding a glass of fizzing drink in his hands. Francis stood and left for the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, again,” Arthur admitted, “I know that they’re ruthless, and they only attack on open water. Odd enough, since they drown so easily, at least that one did.” Arthur explained that Carrion were unknown, but they were hardly ever seen except over the North Sea, where they ran rampant. It made the water even more inhospitable, given it was already dangerous due to the leagues of Hunter boats and killer whales. At whales, Alfred burst into laughter. “No, really, they capsize boats easily. And they’re quite large.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whales here are big, too, but I always thought they were friendly.” Alfred admitted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur could not imagine a world with friendly whales. Moving away from his shock, he gave as much information as he could on Hunters. The spearheads of the “New Movement”, they hunted any lone magic-users and took them away. No one really knew what happened to these people. Sometimes they returned unharmed, sometimes they were never seen again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, that they were led by a man named “Ivan”.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure it’s coincidental, though.” Arthur said. Ivan ignored the statement, appearing lost in thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know that Ivan?” Alfred ventured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but Francis does. And they are not on good terms whatsoever.” Arthur replied. Francis returned, handing them all cups of tea. Arthur happily took his, looking into the amber surface. “I do hope they haven’t run into each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t it be good if they did, though?” Alfred asked. “If our Arthur and your Francis went on their trip to the North, or whatever, and ran into Ivan? That would be three for three.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There would be no way to communicate--” Arthur stopped, turning to Francis. “You said those notes appeared, right? In random places around your home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Francis said slowly, turning his attention to his teacup dejectedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What notes?” Alfred interjected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I know that handwriting. How could I not? I’ve seen it a million times.” Arthur ignored Alfred. He set his cup aside, scrambling to his feet. “They were his. My world’s Francis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Francis said softly, into his tea. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The song referenced is Le Moribond by Jaques Brel (1960).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Two Guitars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eliza was not weak. She had never been weak. Her entire life, she had fought for her position. From lowly, impoverished sewer rat, to common thieving street creten, to runaway gypsy, to Queen of the Dancers, she had fought every step of the way. When she was pinned by the harsh ropes and dragged into the reeking vehicles, she kicked and struggled. Her forehead met with one of their foreheads. Her elbow met with one of their ribs, digging in the soft, exposed flesh. She managed to bite down on an outstretched hand until, at the order of the tall, frightening one who led them, they stuck something into her back that dimmed her world. As she dripped into a forced sleep, she saw her sisters and struggled again. The men struck her once more, this time drowning her in black. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she woke, she was in a vast, upper class room. In the centre of the room was a four-poster bed, complete with scarlet canopy and plush, uncomfortable looking pillows. The walls were decorated with golden, grinning cherubs. The doors were of frosted glass, leading to a seperate room. Eliza, finding herself on a long, rattan chair, shakily rose to her feet. Next to her, on a short counter, was a basin and porcelain carafe of water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She found that she had been placed in some sort of coarse fabric dress. She warily made her way to the water, her throat aching and dry. She took the carafe and drank directly from it, savoring its sweetness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, she heard light rapping at her door. She swung around, watching the door swing open. She took the carafe and slammed it against the side of the sink. The body broke, leaving her with a sharp edge and handle. She pointed it at the intruder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The intruder, a woman, watched her hold the shard of porcelain. Eliza stood straight, her legs separated, a fighter’s stance. She heard a voice in her head, crawling from ancient memory. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, that’s right, keep your legs apart but balanced. That way, you can’t be pushed over. In a fight, once you fall to the ground and can’t get up, it’s over. Might as well roll over and die, then.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you? What is this place?” Eliza spat at the woman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman was shorter than Eliza and wore her platinum hair free and straight against her back. When she spoke, her accent was pinched, Slavic. “Put it down. Shame you broke it, it is a nice piece of work. Silk Road designs are not cheap to come by.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Eliza glanced down, seeing the shards of glass. She had not noticed the birds and flowers painted in bright blue. “So what?” She turned back to the woman, who now stood directly in front of her. She moved so silently. Eliza backed away again, hitting her ankle against the couch. She kept her balance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am your caretaker for the foreseeable future,” the strange woman explained. “I would have liked to come by earlier, but you slept through the entire night and this morning. I had hoped to wake you with breakfast. Would you like tea? Or water? You need not drink from the water meant to wash you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re playing a joke on me.” Eliza retorted. The woman’s expression did not change. Her pale grey eyes remained on Eliza. Eliza, unnerved, swung the shard forwards, aiming for the stranger’s head. “Explain who you are! Where am I? Where are my Dancers?” The woman struck Eliza in the shoulder, knocking the shard out of her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No harm will come to them, unless they are hostile. You, however, I have been told are already hostile. I will not hold this against you. But this behaviour will not be tolerated in our city.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are they?” Eliza cried out again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They are here. Like this room. They are safe. I will bring you food, you must be hungry.” The woman turned away, heading back for the door. “Once you have eaten you will likely behave better.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza picked up the shard of glass and flung it. Her blood boiled in rage. The woman stepped away from it, letting it hit the wall and fall harmlessly to the floor. The woman glanced briefly over her shoulder. “My name is Natalia. It is good to meet you, Elizaveta.” With that, she shut the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza slumped against the couch, careful not to cut her feet on the shards of glass. She had acted foolishly. She tilted her head into her hands, grasping at strands of her hair. She had been rash. What did she think? These people who could easily capture her would easily keep her contained. These weren’t the cruel street rats she was used to. At least, those didn’t know how to dodge Eliza’s attacks so easily.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, Eliza considered, they would feed her. But all luxuries came with a price. She wondered how grand this one was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two stories up, Ivan invited Alfred and Arthur to lunch in the great hall. He even had them dress in elegant, golden robes. The dining hall was in the centre of all the apartments, so that every balcony could peer down and sniff whatever was cooking. The kitchen sat at the far end of the circle, away from the entrance, and white tables with flickering candles crowded the main room. All around them was white and gold. Gold lace decorated any edges, whereas white filled in the gaps. The floor was triangular tiles in a mandala-like pattern, again white tiles interrupted by golden borders. Painting, done in soft peach colors and dabs of red decorated the empty wall space just below the first floor of apartments. One, Arthur recognized, was Venus rising from sea foam, but as if the painting had sat out in the sun too long and become bleached.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur stuck close to Alfred, giving the frightened young man a squeeze on his shoulder whenever he stiffened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does everyone eat here?” Arthur asked. What he really wanted to ask was when do they get to see the others? But the dangerous glint in Ivan’s eye and crooked smile made Arthur think otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan, a crow in his black uniform against the snow-white of his surroundings, replied: “No, no. You can eat in your own apartments, of course, but why when we have such lovely chefs that can cook nearly anything you would like? Here’s an empty seat, do sit.” Ivan paused by one of the tables, pulling a chair back and gesturing grandly for Arthur to sit down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur heard a distant plucking of violins and the sonorous voice of a cello. He spotted an orchestra, all dressed in white, preparing their stage. “Food and entertainment, is it?” He mused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Ivan said, taking his own seat. He kept his sabre in its sheath, so that when he sat it hung against the side of the chair. He motioned for a waiter, a young man with spectacles and dark hair who instantly ran off. “I thought you didn’t like the drink from yesterday, so I suppose some wine will do instead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir.” Alfred said, inclining his head towards the empty silverware. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur picked up one of the forks, its handles engraved meticulously with white birds. “You have quite the blinding theme, here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“White is purity. It is freshly fallen snow. It is cleanliness.” Ivan said, gesturing to new incomers. A couple, man and woman, took their seats at an adjacent table. The woman wore a seashell pink dress, her blonde hair was tied and pinned by several pearls. The man’s suit was a light beige. The blended well, but still stood out against the painfully white backdrop. “Anything light is also such a lovely thing to look at, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why do you wear all black?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I am not any of those  things.” Ivan said simply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The waiter returned, placing wine glasses before them all and pouring a white wine for Arthur and Alfred. For Ivan, he poured a different, deep crimson liquor. The waiter looked for Ivan, his face strained. Arthur could not tell whether he was deeply afraid of Ivan, or deeply reverent. Ivan lifted his glass and drank. He held the stem delicately, looking into the bloody depths. “Thank you.” He said, setting the glass down. The waiter thanked him and fled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now,” Ivan said, looking at Alfred and then at Arthur, his gaze lingering. “I believe you have many questions left unanswered. I would like to set all of them to rest, today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur began to speak, excited for his opportunity for even a drop of more knowledge, anything that would lead him to Francis and Eliza and all the Dancers. If he had to play dumb, that was fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For instance,” Ivan cut Arthur off, “Why are you in this world, Arthur?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pair of servants rushed into the room, setting up a table and two chairs. A second pair brought in plates of food, complete with silver-dome tops over the plates. Eliza watched from her sanctuary on the couch. On the bed, Natalia sat, watching as the servants carefully prepared dinner. Eliza watched them set two places. She avoided Natalia’s gaze. It seemed to her that it wasn’t just her idea -- the servants also avoided even looking in the strange woman’s direction. Once, Eliza thought she saw a sympathetic glance cast her way from one of the female servants, but it was gone before she could really say she saw it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dinner set up, Natalia rose from Eliza’s bed, gesturing for her to come forwards and join her. Eliza looked down at her hand, the symbols to her gods bright red, and beginning to bleed. She had been digging her nail deeply into one of the symbols, the four-pointed star, while waiting. She wished she had saved a shard of porcelain, but Natalia had it cleaned up before Eliza could think up a plan. This would have to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop maiming yourself.” Natalia said, “And come have dinner. You must be starving, eating that foul meat and rotten flour for days on end. Come.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza approached the table, scowling at Natalia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not pretend you are surprised, Mage.” Natalia said. Eliza felt stung by the insult, but took a seat, watching Natalia sit once a servant had pulled up her chair and wait as another draped a patterned napkin against her lap. “I am used to all of your tricks and magic.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are not used to me.” Eliza snapped, reaching for her knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” She stopped, hand outstretched. Natalia flicked her eyes at Eliza’s hand, at the intertwining, complex symbols. “Seems you wanted to scratch the four-pointed star. What did you want to do? Set fire to the room? I do not think that is a good idea.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you feeding me? Why not just be done with it and kill me?” Eliza countered, averting her eyes as the food was uncovered. She caught sight of a fillet of fish, its flesh white and glossy with butter, sitting against a pillow of mashed potatoes. It smelled divine. Eliza swallowed a bolus of saliva that appeared much against her wishes. She kept her arms crossed, avoiding the food. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are not cruel.” Natalia responded, cutting into her fish and popping a piece into her mouth. She hummed in pleasure. “It just melts in your mouth.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will not touch anything prepared by your filthy hands.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? All of our food is made by cooks. Talented cooks. Some are even relatives of yours, I’ve heard.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza scoffed. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve probably poisoned it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natalia sighed and motioned for one of her servants to come forwards. The servant, the girl who possibly looked at Eliza pitifully, took a small piece of Eliza’s food with a fork from her apron. She stuck the piece in her mouth and chewed, stepping back. “It is excellent.” She said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter. Could be a slow acting poison.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natalia motioned again for the servant, who took a piece from Eliza’s plate and handed it to Natalia. Natalia ate it, watching Eliza’s expression turn doubtful. “Shame to let all your food go to waste.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, you haven’t poisoned me. But you didn’t answer me. Why?” Eliza reluctantly picked up a fork, her stomach growling painfully. She could always pretend to eat and then retch it on to Natalia’s lap. Somehow, she decided that wouldn’t work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I said, we aren’t monsters. We live in luxury, here. My siblings and I.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Typically you don’t treat captives with room and board.” Eliza said, holding her fork still. She could manage to avoid eating. But why risk her strength? If she was to think of a way to escape, she needed nourishment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, you would not. We are not savages. Haven’t I said that already? We will treat you well because you are valuable to us. You have magic that we want to know more about. How are you able to work magic without threads? How are you able to do so many things with drawings on your bodies? It is all a mystery to us. I hope you can help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will never betray our secrets.” Eliza said, setting her fork down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless it is to save your kin? Right? Even you would not be so baseless.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The servants brought forwards a plate of fish and potatoes, but Arthur could not look at it. He could only stare at Ivan in horror. How could he know? Had Arthur been the one fooled this whole time? He chewed his lip, thinking of what he could say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I--I beg your pardon?” He tried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan rolled his eyes grandly. “I suppose I should not have gone in with such a bold statement. I should have started easily. Such as, what happened to your leg?” He asked Alfred. “Well, you know what, but why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred’s hand reached below the table, squeezing his false leg. “Why…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. But, I don’t have answers for that, I’m afraid. But I can guess. You were a young fledgling student. You showed a knack for magic. You came from a poor family. Or maybe a farm family and moderately well off. But, either way, you were in a situation that could have been improved if you had the ability to see the threads. Someone caught word that you could and, just like that, you were met with a ‘Master’, appropriate title, no? A Master to master you completely.” Ivan paused to take a bite, or maybe to let his words settle like dust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could you know?” Alfred asked, his voice pitching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could I not know? It’s what happens to everyone. Everyone who shows even a drop of potential is prey. And yet, you are never taught to be wary of them. These Masters, venerable men and women, want more in their ranks. So they say. What an honor it is to serve the higher cause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet your family was also very proud of you. To think they had a link to a better life. I bet they thought it would all work out. And you, hopeful, naive, sweet child thought to yourself all of this was worthwhile. Not only the torturous process of learning magic, but of all the </span>
  <em>
    <span>sacrifices </span>
  </em>
  <span>you had to make. Was it worth it?” Ivan gestured to himself. “For me it wasn’t… At least we were not in Rome.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span> Alfred tensed. Arthur was not sure what it implied, and was too afraid to ask. By the looks of it, nothing pleasant. Arthur regarded his plate of food, his appetite shrivelled to nothing. “How do you know?” Arthur asked, squeezing the fork. “How could you know?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I know. I know that you are not from here. You are alien. I know why Francis did it, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis did it?” Arthur asked, before he could stop himself. No, of course it did. The moment he crossed those crushing waters, Francis exclaimed in joy, shock, surprise. It worked, he had said. Arthur, so caught up in the new world and his anger at Francis and everything that has happened in between, had let himself forget. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because he loves to experiment. He loves research. He lives for it.” Ivan explained, setting his fork against his empty plate. “You haven’t eaten, Arthur.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They aren’t safe -- you lied!” Eliza lashed out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natalia seemed unfazed. “When did I lie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said that I would comply or you’ll hurt them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not say that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You implied it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, what I implied was that you help us along and we allow all of you to go, easy as that.” Natalia glanced at Eliza’s full plate. “You haven’t eaten, Eliza.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, the small orchestra began to play. At the forefront stood a man. He held a violin and poised the bow, resting his chin against it. He had a single beauty mark below his lip and elegant glasses attached to a gold chain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur shook his head. “What else do you know? What else did that bastard lie about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan smiled, now, soft as melted snow. His scarlet eyes seemed to ooze sympathy. Arthur looked away. “Arthur, ah, Arthur. Of course, I assume he told you that you were going North.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, the cat told me. Wherever the damned thing is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The cat? The other one’s familiar?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If that’s what he is.” Arthur wondered vaguely where Fen was, but his thoughts were already clouded and full. He felt as though he was slogging through deep, bitterly cold snow. If only he could push past it. He wondered if the wine was poisoned, vaguely, but doubted it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan sipped the last of his wine. A servant appeared before he set his glass down, refilling it. “Interesting. Though, I suppose the other you had ideas to go up North. He was always in competition with us, after all. That aside, he would have suggested going up North anyway. To find Tino and his Alchemical material, hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He seemed surprised when the cat mentioned it,” Arthur admitted, “But I couldn’t really focus on much else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, of course he would. If he seemed to accept it immediately, that would make you eventually suspicious, wouldn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred finished eating, setting his fork down, staring down at his lap. His spectacles began to slip down his nose. Arthur resisted the urge to tell him. Arthur wanted nothing more than to fall away like Alfred had. He wondered if he would be able to do that, someday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, Arthur told himself, as he had many times before. He was Arthur </span>
  <em>
    <span>bloody </span>
  </em>
  <span>Kirkland. He had fought numerous wars. He had suffered grievous injuries. He had written two best-selling historical tomes and he had been sucked into a new world. He’d survive this long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Resolve strengthened, Artuhr turned to face Ivan. “What are you getting at? That he wanted to lead us here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, of course not. What I’m trying to tell you is he had no intention of getting you to the North. There was no reason to go North in the first place. Francis had the device all along. Ever wondered what his necklace was?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur touched his chest, just where the locket of Francis’ gold chain lingered. “What--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And did you consider that, perhaps, he had told the Queen of the caravans? That’s why you drove so close to Paris? What, just to give the stranger a nice tour? Even though it was so dangerous. I bet he even told you how dangerous it was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur, he did, he did tell us how dangerous it all was, and yet he dragged us here an’ pretended to be all scared.” Alfred muttered under his breath.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you say about his necklace?” Arthur asked, “Why would he not just use it right away? Why waste all the energy on a long journey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because it’s incomplete.” Ivan said, pulling the monocle Arthur had seen him use, when he raided the caravan, out to the light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you have it,” Arthur said, looking at the monocle in Ivan’s fingers. It looked so fragile in his gloved hands. “You have the other piece. I’m sure you have Francis locked up somewhere here. Why don’t you put it together and get me home?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan appeared to consider, but the music had suddenly stopped. The cellos, violins, and violas clattered to the ground, their strings unpleasantly twanging. On the podium, clutching the lead violinist by the neck, was Francis.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Uncertainty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The portrait of the Master College’s founder, King Caderyn, could be found in every room. In classrooms, with their tall windows and gilded edges, were bronze busts of his regal head and flowing mane. In the hallways, tapestries depicting him, his lady wife Ismyr, and his infant son decorated the walls periodically. In the kitchen, the King’s emblem, a golden celtic knot pierced through with a blade, hung above the hearth. His story was widely known as his face, for it was his tragedy that brought about the College.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur recalled, in tender clarity, when he first heard it. It was the first day he joined the College. Matriculation began with robes of velvet and standing proud before the aging Masters, placing one’s hand on one’s heart, and swearing the oath to uphold the laws of magic. This part is unimportant, however, because what Arthur remembers most is what came after. After saying goodbye to his aging father, with his weathered and graying face, his fingernails that stank of fish and were perpetually caked with dirt, his sad, lonely eyes. After saying goodbye to the world of impoverishment, where he had labored while nurturing, deep within, the secret of magic until it could strengthen under his mother’s touch. After waving at the world and entering the College for the second time, the first being introducing himself as the son of a fisher and the illustrious Boudica.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was then allowed into a wide, stone hall. A fireplace cackled benevolently in its centre, tossing embers of warmth into the otherwise chilly room. Tapestries hung against all walls, depicting, along with King Caderyn; notable mages, maps of the Brits, and the portrait of the last Grand Master. Arthur, along with a dozen other budding magicians, were bade to sit upon the floor. No pillows nor rugs were spread out for their luxury. They were made to sit against the chilled floor while the head Master took his place before them, standing. He was a saggy relic, Arthur suspected that if the man lifted his jowls he would unleash a torrent of dust. Arthur, sitting in the middle and trying to adjust his robes, listened as the Master detailed the plight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The King Caderyn, known for his locks of red so bright they burned to look at and his intelligent, kind wife Ismyr, first caught word of gathering magicians and mages. These men, swaddled in robes to hide their faces, would meet at the ruins of an ancient tower in the deepest, darkest point of night. There, they would discuss this newfound, terrible magic that surrounded them. They worked in secret. Those who talked about threads were deemed insane or wicked, perhaps even burned at the stake. Often, any man or woman who tried to coax their children in secret would end up strung up the next morning, pyres burning at their feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So these new magicians, fleeing from their prejudiced, dirty towns would meet up under the sparkling moonlight that glinted like quarts jewels against the smooth, crumbled limestone. The King found out through fleeting, loose tongues and galloped on his mighty stead. The Mages, frightened, shoved their flimsy parchments into their robes and tried to depart. The King was faster on his horse than them on their feet. At that time, they did not know how to use the threads to augment their strength. (Here, the old Master would shake his head, lamenting the uneducated mages of old). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the King was an open-minded man. He had been inspired in his youth to pursue the wild and exciting. He had spent his early years in the golden streets of new St. Peter, in the rolling waves of the Pacific, scouting ancient whales in the North. He wanted a stronger, newer country in his reign. These thoughts of glory spinning in his head, fighting for escape like Athena from the skull of Zeus, he stared down at these frightened, wide-eyed mages, and he would allow their practices to continue. He even offered to hold a secret guard or two, only the men he trusted most, to protect them from unwanted visitors. (The Master then went on a long, dry tangent discussing the drivel of monarchical politics at the time. As he spoke, Arthur lost focus, instead trying to rub life back into his thighs. His tailbones had begun to throb against the bare stone).  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So they continued. Slowly, they would build up their community, gathering any who saw the threads and snatching them away before they were caught and burned. King Caderyn even had erected a small, stable little castle so they could remain sheltered in the incoming winters. They built it steadily over the years, pulling stones slowly over rolling fields of heather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before the castle which would soon become the college (“In fact,” the Master said, holding out his arms to gesture to the unheated room, “You all sit now on the same floor that they did, so long ago”), Ismyr bore the King a son. The son, who he called Gwrtheryn, was the light of his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The son, delicate and red-haired like his father, grew to see the threads. The King sent him to learn with the budding magicians, who now began to have “Masters” among their ranks. His song stayed there and grew and learned. (Here, the Master mentioned the arduous nature of meddling with threads, much to everyone’s silent nods of agreement). He loved to ride the horse the King gifted him, a lovely golden beast he named Lady Lake. He enjoyed magic and discussed it with his King father every evening when returning from the Master’s castle. He beamed when he spoke. But, this joy was not long lasted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While the King was in his castle, (and here the story begins to falter for no one knows where he truly was) he was interrupted by an urgent message. One of the College’s young pupils had sent for him, riding furiously on the Prince Gwrtheryn’s lovely stead, all gold and honey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the King came to the scarcely protected building, he saw that half-of it had been demolished, and the insides burned to a crisp. He rushed in, flinging singing rocks with his bare skin, taking blows from falling debris against his back as if they were falling petals, until he unearthed his son. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There, laced in soft light like fallen gold, covered in a sooty cloak, was his son. His hair had singed, but what remained was still that burning red. His eyes stared lifelessly at his father, his hands clutching a shriveled tome. “My son!” The King cried, “My son.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The King, remembering his son’s love for magic, erected a full College in his honor. He built it stronger than it had been before. He told the Masters to strengthen it any way they could. Then, before the country, he declared that the threaded magic is not heresy, nor is it dangerous. He was captured and enslaved soon after, and burned at the pyre along with his wife. Here, the Master ended his tale, and watched all the student’s downward cast faces. The ending was not a happy one, he admitted, but it was an important one. It showed that magic is true and just. It showed that those who are afraid of it are cowards. The Master briefly mentioned those who had risen up against its newfound, well-deserved status and scoffed at them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would the King have died for nothing? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur wondered, now, how much of that was true. He sat on the corduroy couch and watched the papers spill across the glass table like dead leaves on the still face of a pond. He wondered why now, so many years later, he had begun to doubt those words. Then again, he had never doubted Francis before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scraps of paper had been numbers, save for the first two. Francis had marked the digits on the back of each one when he realized they had been appearing in a pattern. Now, matching the numbers together with some guesswork as to the first two, the twenty or so notes made up a poetic, cryptic note. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the middle is where it became clearer and more familiar. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>Dionysus</em>
  <em>
    <span> steadfast, upon the highest tower, downward gazed</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But soft, you say, what light threads through</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drifting into clarity, freeing the choice from its mortal bonds </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But my hands are heavy with the light of dying stars </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Francis repeated, watching as their eyes slid over each parchment. Alfred’s brows were furrowed in confusion. He steadily tried to sound the Latin phrases out, muttering to himself whether that tense was pluperfect or future perfect, and which word meant what, exactly. Ivan read through them once or twice, then turned to watch Arthur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you sorry? Does this mean you planned it?” Arthur asked, “Bringing me to this world?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not plan this. But even so, believe me, I have never been more enamoured.” Francis said. He reached for Arthur’s hands, but Arthur moved away, crossing his arms tightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, hold up, I’m lost.” Alfred jammed himself into the conversation, tearing his eyes away from the torn strips of paper. “You think the other Francis wrote this and hid it in your house?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It must be,” Arthur responded, avoiding Francis’ eyes. “It’s his handwriting. And look -- Dionysis is the wine, in the highest tower, what light ‘threads’ through? It’s quite clear what he meant. I just don’t know how you figured it out, Francis.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis began to ramble. He talked of nothing, panic clear in his voice. He mentioned how the poem seemed to resonate with him. How it felt he had written it for himself. How he knew what it meant, in the end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand what you mean?” Arthur asked, pulling his knees up to his chest. He couldn’t believe he let this strange man so deeply into his heart. Nor that the Francis he knew would purposefully throw him into such a strange and dangerous situation. Well, the latter, perhaps. He had known Francis to do terrible things in the name of ‘research’. Again, he thought of the dying prince and burning king. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not think he’s telling the whole story.” Ivan said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just start from the beginning. Stop pussyfooting around it.” Alfred said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis took a deep breath, steadied himself, and began to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the first notes began to appear, he realized there was a pattern. He realized that what he was seeing was coming from somewhere else. He could never have written such poems. He had avoided drinking any alcohol, even stopped smoking cigarettes, for a month’s time. When he did, he still found the notes. No one had entered his home. Even if they did, how would they match his handwriting so closely, except for the opposite slant? But then, the final note appeared. Francis pointed at the last scrap of paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know the box filled with gold and light; I know what secrets it keeps</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew it meant the box he had. The one with the golden chain and ring. So, for the next national meeting, he urged their secretary to put them at the topmost floor. He brought wine along as well, mentioned toasting Arthur just beforehand to Alfred, who now looked at him with wide eyes, and set the plan in motion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not know it would hurt you.” Francis said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” Arthur asked, “How could anything else happen? You were targeting Arthur. What do you expect? Except for something to happen to Arthur. Did you think something would happen to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Francis said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Arthur cried out, his eyes wet with tears. “And you lied to me this entire time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I didn’t. I really didn’t expect </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>to show up.” Francis insisted, “I thought something would happen to me. I was surprised when you came.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and you were real surprised when the awful bird attacked me. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you bleeding idiot. You knew!” Now the tears spilled freely down Arthur’s cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not expect the bird.” Francis said defensively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan spoke up, his voice like cracking stone, “But you did forget to mention something, yes?” Ivan said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Ivan.” Francis said. He swallowed, his words felt like fire in his throat. “Because this has happened before.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Without the Light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>. Seven Years Before .</strong>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> . . . I am happy to inform you that the current projects are going as planned. I am even more delighted to inform you that the nature of threads has never been closer scrutinized, nor more accurately. I hope that our findings will influence your decision . . . </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis stopped typing, resting his fingers against the elevated letters, running his index finger against the groove of the “t”. He leaned back, rubbing his chest beneath his button-down, watching sticky ink dry against the paper in his well-worn typewriter. He stared, lost to thought until a knock at his door awoke him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come in.” Francis called behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door creaked open, followed by boot-steps. “Are you still working on the proposal?” Ivan asked from behind him, glancing at the several crumpled, ink-stained papers littering Francis’ desk. “I’ll take that as a yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is difficult. I have to beg them for more time while also not trying to sound like I am begging. I need to indicate that what we are doing is important enough for only a touch more funding. It is such a unique idea, unique and dangerous enough that they are stepping around this very carefully. They will not even make the progress we have so far public knowledge.” Francis explained, facing Ivan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have resources in the Brits. Specific resources who are considering launching their own investigation. Several different Masters trying to dig into the roots of magic. So that means that the College Board has not said a word. Probably so they’d promote any of that ‘New Movement’ nonsense… Regardless, are you ready to do it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan smiled, “More than ever.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis and Ivan left the study, with its sturdy sunlight and open windows, in favor of the laboratory. The laboratory sat adjacent to Francis and Ivan’s offices, tucked in a corner and hidden by a bolted door. Ivan opened it, letting Francis in. In the center was an uncomfortable looking metal chair. Next to it, hanging on a polished wood coat hanger, was the most lovely robe Francis had ever seen. He approached it, touching the night-blue sleeves and feeling the velvety smoothness of the fabric. It seemed to shimmer with radiance against the copper-wire lighting. He smiled broadly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had this made for me?” Francis said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finest Dancer cloth, too.” Ivan said, “The kind ladies were quite excited when they heard you were doing it. Though, I do apologize for the delay. Their Queen passed away and they have been scrambled for a new leader.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a shame. Their Queen was kind.” Francis said, sitting on the metal chair. “Do you think this will work?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan, unsheathing his beloved sabre from his belt, made a noncommittal grunt. He shut the doors behind him, watching as Francis strapped himself to the chair after unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his bare sternum. “If it does not work, we’ll know something else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What they knew was slim. Nearly three years of research and studying had only brought them a fragment closer to the truth. They knew that only some people could see the threads of magic, this was common knowledge, and they knew even fewer people could actually master the handling of them. Only some people could touch and feel the threads, tug on them, knit them, stitch them, do anything other than stare at the delicate webbing that lined their entire world, expanding from the horizon and into the sky. This was also fairly common knowledge. Ivan, the only one in his entire home town who could see the threads, truly felt this rarity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan poised the sabre’s tip against Francis’ sternum, careful not to break skin. The room felt colder than before. Francis watched Ivan’s steadfast hand take aim, his scarlet eyes focused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Ivan and Francis found while working together was that some common knowledge was false. Everyone knew that magicians could use the threads, that they were everywhere but their own bodies. In fact, it had been so ingrained in them to believe it that they never looked at that fact too directly. It was their mistake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you ready?” Ivan asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis nodded, once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan stabbed straight in, and the threads unfurled. Bright, fine light began to spill from Francis’ chest. He hissed in pain, squirming against the bindings. The pain of removing, or “unspooling” as they had coined it, was greater than Francis had anticipated. Yet, he held fast. The pain was temporary. The process of research had to end here. What could be done with this--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard screaming loud enough to burst his ears. He felt his chest heave in agony. Ivan had stuck his hands into Francis, grabbing that spool of tightly packed magic. Francis fought against him, his body rejecting it, realizing dimly that he was the one screaming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan captured the threads as they unfurled, weaving them into the robe’s fabric, up the sleeves and into the body. Francis’ eyes streamed with tears. He could only watch, distantly, as Ivan let all but the final stretch of thread enter the robe. He sliced the thread as it hung with his sabre, cutting it neatly. The thread separated, half into the robe and the other half back into Francis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis collapsed against the chair, breathing heavily. He watched as Ivan guided the remaining threads, bright as starlight, into the already beautiful robe. The robe looked even more radiant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan, rubbed his face with the back of his hand, fingers deeply scarred. “It worked. You survived. You’re the first to survive, Oh Martyrs...” Francis, feeling empty and drained, listened as Ivan ranted. He sunk deeper into the chair and shut his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hours later, Francis, now wearing the robe, stood in his office with Ivan. He held out a long gold chain, with a circular looking glass attached at the end. “Now, part two.” He said, his voice hoarse. He swallowed, trying to hold his arms steady as he raised it. He began to swing the chain like a pendulum, and they both stared at the glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you get that?” Ivan asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I borrowed it.” Francis said, grinning. Something told Ivan that was not all true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside, images flickered, inverted and hazy. Steadily, as the pendulum began to find its rhythm, swinging from Francis’ fingers, they came into clearer focus. Images flickered to life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, a recognizable face. “Hey, it’s that boy from Rome. What’s his name, Veliano… Fellano? Feliciano?” Francis said, watching as Feliciano’s face, one eye scarred, came into focus. It then shifted, to another image, a younger version of the already young man. A different reality, switching as the glass reached the apex of its swing. This time, he was terrified. His eyes were wide with fear and he held some indistinguishable object to his chest. His face dripped blood freely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next, an unknown face with large glasses and a freckled, childlike face looked out from the glass. It changed, so many different faces, most unknown. At one point, Francis thought he recognized a woman’s face, but he could not place it. She had dark hair and bright, green green eyes. It was unimportant. The image flickered again, showing a group of children cowering from a zeppelin. Then an old man leaning over an unseen object. Then a group of young men and women dancing. So many different people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are infinite universes, Francis,” Ivan said, resting against the edge of the desk. “It will take infinite--stop!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis shot thread from his hands, to capture the circle mid-swing, but they leapt from his coat instead. Francis could not account for the time disparity and gasped, but the threads connected just in time, before the chain could reach the next apex. Staring out at him was his own face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice catch.” Ivan said. He helped Francis stick the clear glass in place. He strong up iron-threaded strings to the ceiling and all around them, creating a glittering spiderweb to hold it still. Francis would watch his other self carefully, obsessively. He would see him through his life. He would hear his conversations. He would gather information piece by piece. He watched the not-so-strange-stranger resist aging. He watched him go to loud, obnoxious meetings. He watched him look at a different Arthur with such profound sadness in his eyes. He would watch him open a slick little black box when he thought he was so alone, pulling out a chain and ring, he would watch him weep. He would collect the story, gathering the pieces like rich nuts, harvesting them for the winter of knowledge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After two years of this, Francis would slip in his first note.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not long after that, he would slip in his final note, just as a blade swung through the chain. Its gleaming edge sliced through the golden chains and threads that bound it. They fell to the floor, clattering. A hand would reach out and enclose long, gloved fingers around the glass, swallowing it into darkness. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Not Enough</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Francis stood, panting, above the struggling musician. He had a tattered rag wrapped around his shoulders in a make-shift cloak. A tear ran up the side, exposing bare chest and shoulder, and a splattering of drying blood against both. He held a shard of something glass-like against the pale, exposed throat. The man struggled against him. “Let them go, Ivan!” Francis called through the crowd, dispersing like fluttering birds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does the musician have to do with this?” Ivan asked calmly, sipping from his crimson wine. He sat back against the chair, crossing his legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur and Alfred stood still, they felt as though their muscles had been frozen solid. Before them, Francis dropped the musician from his grip and began walking towards Ivan. His bare feet padded against the floors, leaving blotchy red marks as he went. The musician, behind him, scrambled to his feet, clutching his throat. Francis ignored the stranger yelling at him in a strange, pitched language. Arthur noticed, as Francis came closer, that his blond hair stuck to the side of his head in a knotted nest. He looked unwell, his eyes harrowed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have everything you need.” Francis said. “You have everything you could </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> need. You have my city in your hands.” Francis gestured around him with one arm. “Is it not enough that you have to kidnap your friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan kept the sleepy, vague smile on his face. “Your friends, you say? Are you his friends?” He addressed Alfred and Arthur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred kept his nose pointed firmly down. His hair brushed over his eyes, loose bangs, concealing any expression he may have had. His spectacles slipped further down the tip of his nose. Arthur gritted his teeth, steeling himself to speak. “You lied to us.” He said, stopping short when Ivan held up a gloved hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you tell them now, Ivan?” Francis said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only the details you conveniently left out. Like how you never intended to go North, for example. How they were just another piece of your plan.” Ivan said, digging in his coat front for the monocle. He lifted it before Francis, holding it lightly between two fingers. “How you were going to use them to propagate your own wealth. How this man, sucked from his universe, made for an excellent tool.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t--” Arthur began, again silenced by a sidelong gaze from Ivan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m telling you now. You’re the last piece to the puzzle. You’re the last piece that can help our world’s disparity disappear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis,” Arthur tried again, “You know what I saw. I saw him rip your bloody soul out. I felt how awful it was.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis and Ivan continued to ignore him, much to Arthur’s mounting annoyance. Francis and Ivan seemed at a standstill, poised against each other, Francis standing in only a tattered rag and Ivan leaning leisurely on an upholstered chair. They stared at each other, the tension an electric undercurrent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You betrayed me.” Ivan said simply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Francis responded, his hands tightening into fists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza stood at the foot of the bath, staring into the milky, lavender-scented depths. She dipped her fingers into the foamy surface, running streaks through to expose clear, pristine water below. She was alone, save for a servant at the door. She had already checked the windows, but all of them were of frosted glass and, as far she could tell, didn’t actually lead anywhere. Everything else in the fragrant room, to its bronze sinks and delicately folded towers, was harmless. No sharp edges. Eliza sat on the surface of the bath’s curved lip, running her fingers through her hair. She once again glanced at the symbol on her hand. The wound she had opened was now perfectly shut, leaving only an elevated ridge of reddened skin. Eliza wondered how many of her people had found their doom here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She slipped into the bathtub, soaking her hair, closing her eyes, and thinking. She had not had a proper bath in her life, except for once in a large, communal building in Prague. She remembered the papery hands of the old crones who managed the bathhouse stabbing into her back and arms, pushing into the muscles until she was clean inside out. She had still been a rogue, poorly-behaved young woman then. Back when he was still alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, it felt so nice to let the warm waters lap over her skin, silky from the soap, comforting in their luxury…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She heard clicking heels outside her door and stood up, quick enough to upset a wave of water over the side of the tub. At the door, next to the servant, appeared another shadow. She heard Natalia speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you’re enjoying our hospitality.” She said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza scowled, sinking further into the water. “Thank you, miss.” She hissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not using this as leverage, Dancer.” Natalia responded, her voice a purr. “We want you comfortable, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still don’t understand why you do this.” Eliza said. “What’s the point of capturing and enslaving us? Don’t you have your own magicians to do your work for you? If that’s what you want, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think we do, exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you steal Dancers and rogue mages and stick them in this hell-hole of a city. Then you force them to work. That’s all the New Movement bullshit is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Natalia spoke next, her voice could cut steel. “The New Movement is not bullshit. It is to empower the people. It is to cut down the barriers between those who can and cannot do magic. It is to make people like myself equal to you, you witch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that why you murder innocent magicians?” Eliza said, cupping water in her hands and staring at the glossy bubbles that collected. She didn’t care much for what Natalia thought, really, she just wanted her to keep talking. Reveal something. Anything. She could feel the humming of her people, the unique pitch that Emma carried with her at all times. It was so close, like listening to someone sing a few rooms away. She just couldn’t make out the words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We murder no one. If they choose to die for their cause, so be it.” Natalia was saying. She had placed her hand against the door. Eliza could see her lower her head through the rheumy glass. “We wish they wouldn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is ‘we’?” Eliza prodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My siblings. We built this disgusting city up. We made it what it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm, so you made this disparity between rich and poor? I saw the slums on the way in. Everyone knows of them.” Eliza said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone who had heard of Paris knew that the centre of the city was leagues beyond the surrounding rings. The shanty homes, cramped together close enough that children ran over rooftops to get where they needed to go. The schools that sat under the ground or in the streets, where wholehearted teachers sat cross-legged on the ground and drew diagrams in the mud, using whatever they could. The shops that stocked aging beef and curdled milk, despite cattle roaming just outside the city. It was a nightmare city. Eliza remembered, distantly, someone who might have been her mother warning her that if she misbehaved, they would send her to Paris. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was already like this, but it’s better now.” Natalia said. Eliza thought she sounded hopefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How so?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you asking such questions? Your people do not care about the poor. You are no different than the Parisian aristocrats who made this city into the filthy mess that it is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t eat the poor families’ babies.” Eliza amended, rising from the water. It sloshed off of her. She climbed out, pressing her feet on to a creamy white shag carpet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she could reach the rack of towels, the doors opened and the female servant rushed in. “Can’t let you catching a cold now,” she whispered, her grammar jumbled out of anxiety. She grasped the towels and began to intricately wrap them about Eliza’s body. Before she started, Eliza caught Natalia’s gaze, her eyes watery, pinned to her. She wore an expression of shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you asking me such questions?” Eliza spat back, shifting so the towel covered her back better. The servant was drying her hair, fluffing the ends. Eliza winced at the tugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who hurt you?” Natalia asked. And this time, Eliza finally saw her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did kill my family,” Francis said, off-handedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, of course I did. I then usurped their place and changed the world for the better. I am a great evil, no?” Ivan asked. “Then again, you are the one who stole my research. You are the one who took everything from me for your own gain.” His voice steadily rose in anger, but he did not stand. He continued to watch Francis’ evenly, his smile sliding into a twisted grimace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur began to stand, grabbing at Alfred’s arm, “We can run,” he hissed. His chair squeaked against the floor as he scooted back. Ivan turned to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” He said and, with a flick of his wrist, tied Arthur and Alfred to their chairs, sending them toppling backwards with the force of tightening, lashing threads. Arthur and Alfred landed on their backs, bound to the chairs at the back and legs. Arthur struggled, looking at Alfred. He opened his mouth to speak, to urge Alfred to do something, but Alfred had turned away, resting as though resigned to his fate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let them go!” Francis cried out, moving towards them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Ivan said. “Why don’t we finish what we started all those years ago?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Eiza could see what Natalia was: a young, frightened woman. A smart, capable one to be sure, but still young and delicate. Her face tilted towards Eliza’s, her nose small and rounded, her cheeks curved and ending at the chin in a heart shape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re scared.” Eliza said. “Because you know who did this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She approached the younger woman, feeling the loose chain in the system. She knew, if she pushed hard enough, she could get her way. She leaned close to Natalia. “You said you don’t hurt anyone, your cause, you just get people to help you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have been told, and I have seen, that no one gets hurt.” Natalia said, shaking her head. “My brother showed me himself. I love my brother. I trust him. He would not lie to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza turned her back on Natalia and lowered the towel, exposing her back from neck to just below her shoulder blades. She showed the network of rigged, caterpillar-like scars that crawled across her back. These were planned, purposeful lashes. They could not be mistaken for a wound from falling into brambles, or a bad accident in a mill, nor a particularly brutal, random lashing as a child. No. These were brandings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know how many there are?” Eliza asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hundreds.” Natalia said quietly, her face pale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two-hundred and eleven.” Eliza said. “Exactly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who did this?” Natalia repeated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did. Your people did.” Eliza lied, knowing Natalia could not see her self-satisfied, wolfish grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Arthur and Alfred were taken below, still bound by threads Arthur could not see, but at least no longer tied to chairs. Ivan walked behind them all, his hands clasped behind his back, as Francis led the way. Francis walked with a noticeable limp, one Arthur had not noticed as he streaked through the dining hall. He continued to drip blood, but at a much slower pace it seemed. The tattered rag, up close, looked vaguely like Francis’ robe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked past several rows of doors, all made of polished wood with elegant, brass handles. Despite the elegant furnishings, Arthur felt like he was on death row. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where were you taking us?” Arthur asked. “You seemed surprised when Ivan showed up. So I guess Paris wasn’t your final destination.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s true,” Francis said without turning around. “That’s why I tied you up. I didn’t think he would recognize you. Maybe take you as prisoners. I was hopeful that was true, since that’s what it looked like. At first.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Silly mistake,” Ivan said from behind, “I worked with you for ten years and you thought your little trick of binding up this gaping, empty hole of magic could get past me? I still have the monocle. I could see that you didn’t belong just by glancing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does it look like?” Arthur asked despite himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like an open wound in the world.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis stopped abruptly, letting servants pull open a heavy set of doors at the end of the hallway. Their obsidian, heavy frames clashed violently against the rest of the hallway, with its floral trims and tea-green wallpaper. Francis entered first, his feet slapping wetly against a hard cement floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natalia led Eliza, who had dressed hastily in ill-fitting tunic and breeches, out of the room and down a hallway. The hallway, much to Eliza’s surprise, was just as elegant as the room. Every so often the green wall was interrupted by a door, sculpture, or ornamental mirror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natalia had decided, after hearing Eliza, that something must be done. So now, she dragged her by the wrist, walking as quickly as her heeled shoes allowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot believe that something like this is done here. I am sure those who did this to you will be justly punished. We were told, I was told, that nothing harmful would happen. That we would only resort to force in response to violence.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose it’s another one of those million lies you heard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My brother must be informed.” Natalia continued, ignoring Eliza’s comment or possibly just not hearing it, “He must know that these things are being done under his nose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza stopped abruptly, pulling Natalia to a stop along with her. She heard it. She heard the smooth sound of a perfectly harmonized group of Dancers. Together, they sang and evoked the voice of their gods. In between their notes hung the secret tone, the whispering goddess of faith and the humming god of strength. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just behind one of these doors. Eliza reached for a door, expected for Natalia to stop her, but she did not. She watched as Eliza shoved a door open, revealing an empty room. She tried another one, and another. Eliza began to feel frantic now. She could hear their voices. She could hear them in the air, in the space between her heartbeats, in the pitch of a sob rising in her throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are they?” Eliza cried out, trying still another door with another empty room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur and Alfred stood in the middle of the empty room, sitting next to a single metal chair with frayed, torn leather straps. Blood stained the back and seat. Ivan spoke up first, into the uncomfortable, blood-crusted silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you tell them what you planned to do, Francis? They owe some truth.” Ivan said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. They do.” Francis turned to Arthur. He spoke in a deadpan, biting off each word as if it hurt. Arthur could only watch him with mounting hatred. “I was going to use you or myself as a black hole. It was going to be a center for magic. It could suck up all the threads in a certain area. I had wanted to do it in your college, because it was an epicenter of magic. I was going to do it quickly, before anyone realized what had happened. But I didn’t expect it to work. Once the magic had been unraveled into this black hole - which did not work, mind you - I was going to collect it and put it into robes. We know this works. It is how I made my robe.” He shrugged, indicating his slapdash cloak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would strip the area and, perhaps, we could do it again later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds so diabolical,” Arthur said softly, hardly believing what he had heard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a hypothesis.” Francis said, his eyes now on Ivan. “It was our idea. Except, he and I wanted to do things differently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wanted to strip people of magic and then sell it, like clothing, or in bottles like trinkets.” Ivan said, staring right back. “But that would just perpetuate the problem. Who can afford magic? The rich. Nothing would change. I wanted to get rid of it all together. Suck it out of this world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t magic integral to your world?” Arthur asked. “Wouldn’t it ruin everything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Integral? It is a pretty flower people use to make themselves feel like they are so much stronger. It is useless.” Ivan raised his sheathed sword, “It would be a fresh start. No one would have to fight over magic if it no longer exists. So sit down. We’ll do this the right way, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis nodded, “Let us, then.” He took the golden chain from his necklace and held it out, approaching Ivan. Ivan held his own hand out, gloved fingers curling, beckoning. Francis stepped closer, his hand tightened into a fist. He raised it and swung, launching a haymaker at Ivan and striking him below the jaw. It was a slow, predictable punch, but Ivan had not expected it. Ivan’s head twisted around, reminding Arthur of a comic book hero taking a swing at the villain, once and for all. Ivan even seemed to lift off a floor for a moment, before collapsing forwards. Francis reached over and grabbed the hilt of Ivan’s sword. It slid out of its sheath, twisting dangerously against Ivan’s body weight. Francis managed to wriggle it through with a horrible, grating sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took the blade and cut the binds loose from Arthur and Alfred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Run!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza and Natalia ran down the hallway, towards the approach of incoming footsteps. The two women stopped short, seeing three men surge from them. In the lead, Francis with a battered cape hanging wildly against his shoulders and a glinting, exposed blade. Behind him was the soft man, Arthur, and the broken toy, Alfred. Eliza watched as they came for her. “Oh, goddesses, he’s naked.” She said under her breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis approached her, “You’re here. We have to run.” He went to grab her arm. She jerked away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not without my Dancers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis groaned, slowing to a half-jog. “Fine, but where are they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are they?” Eliza said, rounding on Natalia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She mumbled something inaudible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Eliza yelled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know!” Natalia shot back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll come back for them,” Francis said, checking over his shoulder. “We don’t have time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can you not know!” Eliza said in unison. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on!” Francis begged, reaching for Eliza’s hand again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind them came quick, hurried footsteps. They all turned, finding Ivan making the corner, rubbing his jaw. Blood ran freely from his nose and a cut on his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brother?” Natalia said, pushing past them and toward Ivan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan looked at her and grabbed her by the shoulders, hugging her to his body. “Going to attack my sister, too? What new depths do you sink to?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are we doing?” Natalia began in a pitched voice, but he shushed her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have to go,” Francis said again, and began to run. Eliza followed reluctantly, Alfred and Arthur at her heels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They rounded the seemingly endless, identical hallways until they found a hidden staircase, twisted into one of the walls. Francis went up, his robe whipping around corners and his blade held at his side, pointed up. They chased up the marble steps. Alfred’s leg clanged against the surface, rattling like loose pieces of metal. Arthur followed, his chest tightening, damning staircases once again. Eliza followed resolutely behind, listening for her people, tuning her ears to the building. She could feel them in the walls. She could feel them all around her. So why couldn’t she see them?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They finally reached the floor with the now empty dining hall. The mess had been swept up in the time they were gone. Servants scuttled from corner to corner, shutting full trolleys of broken dishes and bunched up table clothes, stained with various spilled drinks. Past the hall, they went towards the entrance. It gaped in front of them, massive golden doors cracked just open enough to spill a slant of late-day light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis shoved his body into the doors, shoving them open as best he could. Alfred came to his side, pushing as well. These were doors meant to be opened with machinery, to protect against unwelcome intruders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quick, find something to open it!” Arthur called to Eliza, who nodded. Before she could look for a pulley or button or any sort of mechanism, the doors began to part. Eliza caught sight, just overhead in a partially-obscured balcony, the servant who had helped her before. She smiled down at her, her lips quivering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis and Alfred, who had been pushing, tumbled outwards. Arthur and Eliza followed, casting glances behind them. A sound that had started as a deep grumble turned into the bashing clatter of feet. Dark cloaks and suits began to appear in the dining hall, spilling from all corners.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We made it!” Arthur cried out, before promptly tumbling down a precipice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another way to discourage unwelcome intruders, as thought up by the anti-social and not very creative aristocrats of old, was to build their sanctuary atop a steep cliff.  The dirt ran smoothly downwards just after a short ledge meant for incoming carriages or vehicles that would travel a hidden, twisted path. Here is where Arthur misstepped, falling forwards. Eliza followed shortly after, unable to stop her momentum as Arthur cried out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fall was interrupted by the rain-softened dirt. Their fall turned into a rolling, stumbling, teeth-rattling, painful tumble down the cliff. They would skid to a stop at the brink of the city, near a fence of hedges dotted with pretty pink flowers, where the ground flattened up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laying in pain, they grunted to each other that they were alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur, dirt-stained and muddied, raised his head slowly. Around him, the others sprawled. Eliza was the first to stand, watching something in the distance. Her clothing was smeared with dirt and twigs. A few fallen flowers matted into her hair. Her eyes were wide, bright dots against the mess of her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his other side, Alfred and Francis were struggling to stand. Francis’ robe had torn further, leaving only a scarf-like strap at his chest. He still held the sword, but it had snapped halfway through somewhere in the dirt. However, his attention was on Alfred. When Arthur noticed, he picked his aching, screaming body up and crawled to Alfred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clockwork leg had fallen apart in the fall, leaving behind only the portion above the knee, and even that had massive chips and gaping holes where straps of metal had been yanked free. Alfred stared at in horror, his hands grasping somewhere to the left of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?” He said, his voice shaking. Arthur noticed his glasses were crushed and dirt-smeared. What remained of the frames was twisted into the side of his head. Several lacerates marked around his eyes and eyebrows, where the metal and glass alike had dug in. Tears sprung from his eyes, cutting trails through the dirt. “I can’t walk anymore… Not again.” He said again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis had a hand on his back, rubbing gently. His own face was bleeding and scratched, along with, Arthur now saw, his wrists, chest, and ankle. Arthur thought back to the leather straps on the stained chair. Was that where Francis had been kept?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could ask, another voice cut through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You all look like shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They turned to see a pair of bright red eyes. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Gratitude and Secret Histories</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When he woke, 20 years ago, he was in a different body. He had been eating breakfast and listening to the radio, flipping through a newspaper. One moment, he was alone in his Paris apartment, one set of silverware, one slice of bread, and one used butter knife. He had set his coffee cup down and, suddenly, he felt a tug at his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not see an ocean. Instead, he saw a gaping sea of loneliness. Black nothingness all around him. Pitch, unkind, thick inkinesss. It seemed endless, his memory was hazy. He didn’t recall coming up and out, like surfacing through water, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he woke, he was still eating breakfast, but he was no longer alone. He looked up, from his once lone cup of coffee, to see another one in front of him, coupled with two tall glasses of orange juice. Francis startled, looking around him. In the kitchen, different from the one he had known, Arthur had his back to him. To his left, in the living room, two young children - and he knew them, how could he not? - Alfred and Matthew tussled for some unseen object. Francis could only gape in horror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where was he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quit it, will you?” Arthur called from the kitchen. Alfred launched himself towards the breakfast table, his glasses askew and his face lightly freckled. When he grinned, insisting he did not start the fight, he had a big gap of missing teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis reached over, out of instinct, out of something deep and paternal. He fixed Alfred’s glasses and smoothed over his hair. Francis didn’t dare speak. He wondered if he was hallucinating. He wondered if maybe he had been cooped up too long working on critical paperwork. If the tiny font had burned his brain. If he had really, truly lost his mind. Alfed batted his hand away, laughing, and grabbed the glass in front of him. He downed in immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First!” He called to Matthew, who wined from the couches. When Matthew stood next to Alfred, sipping his juice carefully through teeth that glittered metallically. Rubber bands held his jaw tight. Lisping, he muttered that he had no time to catch up to Alfred. They quickly ate the rest of their breakfast, sizzling bacon Arthur miraculously hadn’t burnt, and toast that Francis carefully buttered for them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they left, Arthur sat down next to Francis and picked up his now-cold coffee. He sipped at it, scrunching his nose. Over the cup, Arthur eyed Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You alright? You’re awfully quiet. Do you feel unwell? Last night you were telling me you had a tremendous headache.” Arthur said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis wondered at that. He did have a headache last night. Maybe he had an infection. Arthur reached forwards and pressed the back of his fingers to Francis’ forehead. The touch felt real. Francis could feel the outline of the slim gold ring on his finger. Francis took the hand in his own, much to Arthur’s surprise, and pressed his lips to it, eyeing the ring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My, affectionate are we today?” Arthur mused, smiling. “Now, don’t be late to work.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis, this Francis that he now was, worked for a wine company. When he got in his car to drive to work, floating in the surreality of walking out of a nice, big house instead of his cramped apartment, he found that he knew exactly where he was to drive. His hand rested on the steering wheel, his own ring glinting in the warm sunlight, he went, without thought, to work. He passed rows and rows of suburban housing. He even found himself waving out his window at strangers, their names trickling into his mind. He passed through a few strip malls and buildings until he reached the vineyards. Beautiful and bright green, all around him, he could smell the wine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even now, he can smell the wine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis enjoyed his work, one he found he could slip into without thought. He didn’t ask anyone to help him, he simply waited for the memories to slip in. As each new trivia of this grape versus that grape came in, another memory fell away. Day after day, he held vintage wines to connoisseurs who gossiped and nodded and swirled wine like they knew what they were talking about. He talked about the seals on the caps. His own, mind you, so you know if it’s authentic or a cheap knock off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Day after day, he would return home. He would come home last, after the bright yellow school bus dropped (his? Yes, his) children at home. Arthur would come home as well, his fingers blackened with ink and the cuffs of his shirts stained blue. Francis would make dinner. He remembered, the first night, that Arthur was not allowed in the kitchen for any other meal than breakfast. He made fun of Arthur, “It’s because you’re England.” He said, pouring white wine to side with sizzling fish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I’m English. I swear, sometimes your English gets terribly flimsy.” Arthur chastised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis paused, dimly aware that something was off about that. He sprinkled white pepper over the fish and checked on chicken strips in the oven (the kids hated all food except for chicken and breakfast food). Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>because he’s England</span>
  </em>
  <span>? That didn’t make sense grammatically. Francis tried to think, but the thoughts slipped between hands, as easy to catch as a wily fish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter, Francis said, must have been a brain hiccup. They said deja vu was your brian misfiring, afterall, a fact he enlightened his children with. Alfred looked bored. Matthew looked excited. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night, the first night, was the last time Francis ever mentioned his old world ever again. He had forgotten, or perhaps chosen not to remember, what he once was. His routine in life was stable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The years would pass, easy as flicking paper out of a calendar. Francis moved up in his career, expanding his production and sales across the country. Arthur, who loved books, quite possibly more than he loved his children, would write his own novel series and achieve fabulous notoriety. His books pushed the envelope, after all. He was a fantasy marvel. He wrote about worlds where the magic was made of strings that tied everything together. Where airplanes were called aeroplanes and a broken-hearted broken-bodied young man was the hero. Where gypsies sang their songs across Europe. Where an undercover agency would try to snip the magic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was called steampunk by some, for it had technologies that were stunted in the steam-era due to the onset of magic, sudden and gripping like cardiac arrest. Arthur loved this world. He nourished it. He fed its soil with new ideas. He would wake up at night, startling Francis from sleep, and leap towards his typewriter (in a few years it would be ‘vintage’). He would clack for hours on end, sounds that Francis would soon learn to find soothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There would be fifteen fat novels total. Four movies would be made. The last one would be a massive disappointment to Arthur, who called off all further film production. That is, until an independent team would then offer a nice amount of money to turn the series into a mini-series. Under careful scrutinization by Arthur, it would turn out to be just fine. A small fanbase would insist the books were better. Another would argue the mini-series’ divergent plot lines were superior.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis would pick up phone calls from Arthur’s mother, who disapproved (but secretly approved) of Arthur’s marriage. Arthur’s father had estranged him. Francis didn’t think he had parents, until he was called up by someone he knew to be his mother. He had no memory of his childhood. It was a funny thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, what he did remember through old polaroids and Arthur’s drunken ramblings, was how they met. Francis and Arthur were both students in college. Arthur had taken a semester to travel, attending Sorbonne in Paris, when he met him. “As soon as I saw you, well, I wanted to be by your side.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was one semester turned into three. Arthur, unabashed and aggressive, asked Francis to a function. “You were a player.” Arthur would laugh, beer sloshing in his cup. “But I realised </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> needed you. More than the other boys and girls.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis would kiss Arthur for the first time, on the lips, while Elvis’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>Can’t Help Falling in Love </span>
  </em>
  <span>played on the record player. Arthur, who had been a stuck-up pretentious bastard, per Francis, had thought Elvis was a bad influence. But, listening for the first time, and feeling Francis’ breath against his lips, smelling faintly of cigarettes and wine and lilacs, he couldn’t help but fall in love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is as much history as Francis could remember or wring out of Arthur. It was his favorite story. Each time he would tell it, he would find a music player and play the song, closing his eyes and humming off-tune with it. Because he was a sappy romantic. Francis was too, but Arthur proclaimed it. Because he couldn’t help it. Because, Arthur would say, he found his way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The children, too, would find their way. Matthew grew from tiny, easy-to-pick on shrimpy kid to lanky, shy teenager. His braces would be taken off in a few years time, revealing perfectly aligned teeth he would not learn to smile with for years to come. He would stumble through high school, good grades all around, but too meek to stand out. He would go to a high-end school across the country. He would do great things. He would work in technology. He would make the world’s first fully computerized model for detecting disease pathology. It could predict any disease’s course through any person’s physiology with nearly 98 percent accuracy. Francis and Arthur were swollen with pride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred, punky and rebellious, bulked up through his youth. Baseball, football, basketball. He played every sport that came across and excelled at it. His grades were fine. He would beg Matthew to tutor him, late at night, when the pride died down and the fear of losing his position on the varsity teams loomed great and terrible. He would go play professional football for a college for some time before settling on a salesperson job.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They would succeed, as much as they liked. They would marry and settle. They would age. So would Francis. So would Arthur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis marvelled at it, one morning, 30 years after first waking in this world. He would stare at the mirror at his own face. At the lines that appeared under his eyes. At the chronic back pain that lurked like a shadow, always ready to pounce. At the way his hair was threaded with gray. He was older. He didn’t know why he was so happy to be older. But he was. When he saw Arthur, his own hair stark-white, he held him close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re old.” Francis would say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for reminding me. I hadn’t noticed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But with age came illness, and with illness came death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur’s kidneys would begin to fail. It was hereditary. Arthur’s lungs were weak. This was not hereditary, but a case of bad luck. He caught pneumonia twice in three months. Antibiotics did nothing. His legs felt stiff all the time and his memory turned fragmentary. Worst of all, the fact that made Arthur weep at night, over the whirring of dialysis machines and the voicemails from his children, was his eyesight. He could no longer read. Francis tried to read novels to him, but Arthur was impatient. He said he didn’t like the speed Francis went. He said he could read faster. Sometimes, when Arthur thought he was alone, Francis would catch him hunched over the yellow pages of a well-thumbed through novel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur would catch pneumonia once again, during the winter. Recognizing the signs, Francis carted Arthur to the nearest hospital. They drove through the piling snow, the white flickering bright as day against the dark, clouded night. Glittering and silent, all for Arthur’s steady, pained wheezing. The Emergency room took him in quickly, stepping over the clusters of people who had waited for hours already, and Francis followed. He told them the history. He told them he’d done this before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And because it had happened before, Francis felt fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waited in the room when Arthur was taken for a chest x-ray. “You know, I lost some change in there, think you can find it?” Arthur asked the humorless gray-clothed technician. Francis, feeling better over the light humor Arthur had, picked up his phone and dialed his sons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, pop,” Alfred’s voice came on the other end. “Everything ok?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your father’s in for another chest x-ray.” Francis said, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair. The room felt quieter now. The beeping of the machines had gone away with Arthur to the other room. “I think it’s pneumonia again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Is he ok--Hey don’t touch that!” Alfred spoke some more, his voice muffled. Francis thought he had a hand cupped over the receiver. “Sorry, bad dog, you know. But is he ok? Do you need us to come over?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis imagined his son, cities away, in his own home. How long would it take to drive? Or catch a plane? Francis wasn’t sure. He couldn’t think with the high-pitched buzzing noise and the “code blue” on repeat just outside of the room. He imagined Alfred in a snow-capped city. He imagined the tall buildings and the posh furnishings. He imagined Alfred’s slick car, his pride and joy, pushing through sloshy snow that piled on the highways. He imagined the dangers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no we’ll be fine.” Francis said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you call Matt?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not yet… Someone’s knocking. Can you call him?” Francis said and held the phone to his chest. “Come in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A nurse opened the door. Her eyes were wide and wet. “I’m sorry, sir.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis was grateful he had not hung up. Alfred could hear through the phone. Alfred could call his brother. Within a day they were back in town. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis was grateful they knew what they were doing. He couldn’t think. All he could do was sit at his side of the bed and stare, at the empty spot. He imagined it was laden with a pristine, untouched blanket of snow. He didn’t dare touch it. The typewriter, now truly vintage, sat on the table, unused for the past five or so years. Neatly lined pill bottles collected dust at the other side of the bed. The white snow-light slanted in through half-drawn curtains. In the other room, Alfred and Matthew loudly discussed what needed to happen. They had to have a lawyer read the will, they had to know where the rights to Arthur’s novels would go (royalties would be split between Alfred and Matthew), they had to take care of things. All the while, Francis sat still, still as he could, and watched the snow fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis was grateful that they held his hand during the funeral, that they knew to play that song. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Darling so it goes/Some things are meant to be…” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was so grateful to them as they stood around him, clouded by his misty eyes. Grateful that, for a few more years to come, they would put him in a neat little apartment and check up on him. Matthew would move his family closer. He could do his work from anywhere, he insisted. Alfred would come by every few months. They would clean his apartment and make sure he took his pills. For his blood pressure, they said. He never recalled having a blood pressure problem, but he stuck them in his mouth. For your depression, they said, and he would stick them into the potted plants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it was loneliness that killed him, maybe he died of a broken heart. Maybe it was the blood pressure, after all. He didn’t know. The last details are fuzzy, like the final events before waking from a dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, when he woke, he was young again. Still in his apartment, still holding that cup of coffee which was still warm, the newspaper still open at his side. The radio had changed, now to describe the weather for the day. It was supposed to snow again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But these are not things that he described to Arthur, Alfred, and Ivan who sat in his apartment, twenty years after waking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he told them was this:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I went to a different world. I loved it. I wanted to go back.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Interlude 2 (He Knows)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Many miles away from Paris, an Italian magician peered into a looking glass. One golden eye only saw his reflection, curled red hair and smooth, effeminate face. His wretched eye stared back, cracked like glass, saw something entirely different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They really are going to go through with this.” He said to himself, frowning. “Lovi! Get your tools. We’re leaving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, he turned, his white robes fanning around him like a billowing cape. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I apologize for the delay. This chapter will be one of two short chapters I'll post today. The chapter following the next one will be a big one and, I hope, a doozy!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Through and Through</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>These red eyes were not the same, late-day red that Ivan had. These were bright, watery rabbit eyes. And they stared at the space over their heads, cradled by a twisting grin. “Well, as far as I can tell, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gilbert?” Francis said rising to his feet. At the same time, Eliza stepped back, mouth open, mute as a fish. “I thought you were dead!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bet you did.” Gilbert said. His white hair was clean as snow, lazily hanging in long bangs over his eyes. He wore a simple, velvet half-cloak clipped at the shoulder with a brass pin. He held a cane between his feet, hands resting on the falcon-head. “I suppose you either want answers or somewhere to clean up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both would be nice,” Arthur agreed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert’s lips twisted in confusion. “Arthur?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, not quite?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes--” Francis cut him off, “He is. Please, help us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert seemed to consider. “Ah, fine, sure. Hey, you! Get these filthy things cleaned.” Gilbert turned, leaving them behind to enter a long slate-house. It was surrounded by shrubberies and greenies on all sides, before melting into the grey-black mush that made up the rest of the slums. A pair of young men came out from the house, glanced at Arthur’s dirtied, messy, bleeding group, and went to work. They went first to Alfred, lifting him and his ruined leg. Arthur and Francis managed to stumble along. Eliza was nowhere to be seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert’s home, if it was his home, was broad and flat. Whatever furnishings there were, they were lined against the walls with nothing in the center of the rooms. Simple carpeting, ramshackles walls, but roomy. Arthur wondered what normal houses looked like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur and Francis were bathed, watered, and fed in the same manner as a horse might have been. Roughly and quickly. The servants hardly spared them a glance when they set the table, their twin gazes only briefly flickering across Arthur and Francis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This left Arthur and Francis alone in the kitchen, sitting around a table crammed into a far wall. Alfred was taken to a seperate room, where he sat tinkering with his damaged leg. He mentioned something briefly that his brother had made his leg, and he would be the only one to fix it. By then, however, Arthur and Francis were too fatigued to formulate a plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur watched Francis pick at his food, now fully dressed, and considered. Ivan had told him so many horrible things about Francis, about their divergent goals, about the betrayal. But, in the end, Francis </span>
  <em>
    <span>punched </span>
  </em>
  <span>the bigger man and let them escape. If he did want nothing but his goal, to create a black hole or whatever, wouldn’t he have lapped up the chance? Or, maybe, Francis was biding his time. Arthur wasn’t sure how to feel, except for tired and in pain. His bones felt broken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ivan told us a lot about you.” Arthur said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He said you meant to lead us to Paris. That you told Eliza to drive us so close. But why endanger them? And, he said you never meant to go North.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So he wasn’t lying! You bastard!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! He wasn’t lying, but I didn’t mean to send you to Paris, either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You meant for us to get captured.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he torture you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he hurt you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, he was a perfect gentleman, you bloody idiot. I’m asking why you made up a whole quest for us to go North when you hadn’t a clue where we were supposed to go. I had to meet a complete stranger to tell me even that little bit of truth. Frankly, I’m completely frustrated with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, before you go on about Ivan like you know him,” Francis set his fork down. “Ivan has led a harsh life. He was the only one of his family, two sisters, parents, aunts, uncles, anyone who could see the threads. He lived through poverty and he hated it. That’s why he went into research, to see how to spread the wealth. It’s a very noble goal, don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course, sure, but what do you have to do with it? With you? You’re flirting around my question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m telling you so you know why he said the things he did. He feels very strongly about his goal. I was foolish for thinking he was merely curious, when his entire heart was in it. I didn’t know the lengths he would go to.” Francis paused, licking his lips, “I had my reasons, too. To tell the truth--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He had his reasons for what he did. Sure, it's ‘cause he was busy fucking around.” Gilbert said from behind them. They turned, finding the man leaning against his falcon-headed cane, his red-eyed gaze pointed away from them. Something bright danced between his fingers. “Mainly with Toni and yours truly, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gilbert, care to explain? What happened? Antonio and I... We thought you were dead.” Francis said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, what didn’t happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We had a funeral for you!” Francis was now standing, his hands tightened into fists. Arthur watched him. Something felt... odd in his expression. As if he was acting. Arthur wondered if maybe Francis knew something else... Arthur didn't know who to trust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert ignored him, facing Arthur. “Hey, you want to go home. Right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur, quite tired of asking how everyone knew, only nodded. Gilbert paused a moment before speaking. “Of course, the answer is yes. I’ll take you home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easily.” Gilbert said, grinning. He held out his hand, demonstrating a monocle similar to what Ivan had, but more gracefully designed. Its edges were dotted with little, sparkling diamonds. Inside, there was no reflection, but instead a murky haze. “Do you have the chain?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you have one?” Arthur asked. “Actually, no, I don’t care. Just get me home.” He tried not to look at Francis' face, twisted in a mixture of emotions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis reached for his neck, and pulled forwards the chain, unclipping it from his neck. He held it out to Gilbert who reached for it. He connected the chain, by means of a tiny hook, to the monocle. He held it up and began to swing it like a pendulum. “Tell me when you see the right one.” Gilbert said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They watched the worlds flicker by. Some with Arthur in them, different but familiar. Arthur saw himself with red hair and green eyes. He watched himself with black hair and a brutal scar across his face. He saw himself weeping in what looked like a corner of a room. He watched himself die. Arthur leaned closer and closer, coming off his chair and slowly walking forwards. Gilbert’s eyes were vaguely tracking him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then -- there it was! -- he knew his body. He knew himself sitting in what looked like Francis’ room, curled on that wretched couch and holding a cold cup of tea. He saw his face contorted into a strange expression, one Arthur knew he would never wear. “There!” He said, watching Gilbert catch the pendulum mid-swing, holding it tight. Francis stood and twisted his fingers. Nothing happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert rolled his eyes at Francis and, in a single motion, somehow caught the pendulum in the air. He let go of it. To him, it looked like the pendulum was held amidst a spider web of threads. To Arthur, it floated in mid air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I stick my finger through? What do I do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bide your time.” Francis said, as Arthur reached up. “And don’t touch it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Arthur had already touched the diamond-studded ring. It felt warm and buzzed at his touch.  “We should have come to you long ago.” Arthur said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert sneered. “You would have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the pendulum, as far as Arthur understood, sucked him, Gilbert, and Francis in. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Converging Fates</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Maybe being sucked in was a wrong way to think about it, Arthur thought, standing upright on perfectly stationary, even flooring. The pendulum merely tugged at him, hard, and he gave in. But he was not in the Parisian apartment. Instead, Arthur found himself in a long, beautiful hallway. An intricately detailed carpet lined the path, which went on and on and on. Arthur could see an end, very far down, with an iron doorway, but only barely. All around him were rising pillars of stone, interrupted either by smooth walls with tapestries, or open windows. The open windows themselves, he realized, led to an empty sky. He approached one, peering into a cool night, watching as a glittering network of stars and cosmos sprawled before him. He noticed a very faint smell of the sea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s beautiful here.” He said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you mean.” Gilbert said bitterly behind them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s hideous.” Francis said, sounding genuinely disturbed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur rolled his eyes and continued to one of the tapestries. It sprawled upwards, depicting in block, harsh lines some sort of kingly man holding out a rectangular hand. Circling around him were twisted forms of much smaller human shapes, their arms raised towards the king figure. Over their heads, in squiggly markings, were golden emblems. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It looks historical.” Arthur said, touching the tapestry. It was rugged and, to his surprise, clean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur, I told you not to touch the damn thing and just look what you did,” Francis said, coming up next to Arthur. He had his hands at his shoulders, rubbing and gripping as though he was cold. To Arthur, the hallway was a lovely, tepid temperature. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s warm in here.” Arthur said, watching Francis tremble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is it warm? We’re in a dungeon. It reeks and it’s freezing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No… Do we not see the same thing?” Arthur asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely.” Gilbert agreed. His hair stuck to his face with sweat. He seemed to be breathing hard. “It’s hot. And Francis is cold. And Arthur’s having the time of his life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nice here. To me. What do you see Gilbert?” Arthur asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert laughed at him. A harsh, crow-like laughter. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>See?</span>
  </em>
  <span> I feel hot. It smells like rotten eggs. It sounds like something is burning. I wonder if I’m in Hell, actually…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t see?” Arthur asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can see shapes. Blurs, ghosts, whatever. I can see that everything is kind of red and black. And I can see you’re surprised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh. I suppose albinism and being nearly blind isn’t uncommon.” Arthur said, more to himself than to Gilbert. “Now I see why you were surprised to find me when you did. Even though I was right in front of you, you only reacted when I spoke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Really? That’s why I did that? </span>
  </em>
  <span>No shit!” Gilbert snapped, breathing harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need to be unpleasant.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis touched Gilbert’s shoulder, his own trembling with cold. “Yes, leave him alone. The Gilbert he knows probably has his sight. Right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unfortunately.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great. Bet he causes more trouble than I do.” Gilbert grinned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, actually, he is a menace.” Arthur said, “But much more tolerable than you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the way I like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur touched the tapestry again and wrapped his fingers around the side. When he did, the tips of his fingers felt suddenly colder than the rest of his hand. Confused, he lifted the fabric and peered beneath it. He was greeted by a cool wind and a splash of green. “There’s something back here!” Arthur said, lifting it further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before him was a mountain side, the very edge of a cliff. He poked his head through further and smelled fresh pine and the cutting, thin air of being up so high. Beyond the cliff, its straining head shaggy with lichen and blue flowers shaped like witches’ hats, was a vast expanse of rock and trees. In the center, shrouded in a thin layer of fog, a hand reached up. Even from Arthur’s distance, it looked enormous. Its palm big enough to hold all of London in, its fingers pillars reaching towards the sky. Arthur pulled his head back out, greeted once again by the lukewarm, salty air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He regarded the King in the center. So much bigger than the tiny forms speckled around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you see on this?” Arthur asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A tattered rag with a hole behind it.” Francis said, his teeth chattering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something vile.” Gilbert responded, pulling on his neckline. He was leaning heavily against his cane. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see a tapestry. And, when I poked my head behind it, I saw something I think is depicted on the tapestry. It’s like a preview of what’s behind it. Do you think this is a hallway to different worlds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis approached and lifted the tapestry gruffly, sticking his upper body through. “It’s a mountain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, and beyond it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A hand?” Francis pulled his body back out, his cheeks flushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes! See? On this tapestry I see a massive human form surrounded by much smaller ones. I think that hand is the hand of this giant king. I wonder what happened…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s keep moving. You can see where we’re going. So find the right one.” Gilbert said, biting off each word. “...Please? Before I die of heat stroke and Francis freezes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well, let us move on.” Arthur went to the other side of the hallway, where a different tapestry hung. He described it as he saw it. In the center of the fabric, done almost entirely in green, was a form of a woman leaning over a pond. Her hair spilled out behind her, blending into the bases of trees that surrounded her, as if the trees were her hair, or perhaps the other way around. Behind her a broad and tawny feline face stared out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur lifted it, peering briefly at a forest. Birds chirped in the trees, a creek babbled distantly. The forest was filled with a warm breeze and decorated with dappling sunlight. “Just like on there, but without the woman. It’s just a forest, and it’s quite warm. Do you want to warm up or cool off, respectively?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis watched Gilbert, straining against his cane, and shook his head. “We should keep going.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They kept going. Arthur walked past the open windows with their gaping maws of space and stars, and towards new tapestries. Most he did not describe, only seeking something familiar. Many had similar rustic-style depictions. Kings and queens, fair maidens, golden princes. Each led to another grassy or forestry landscape. A few were different, however. One was bright blue with shipwrecks in the centre. Another had a house. Only a house, with a slanted roof and pale sidings. Arthur had a sudden feeling of dread shoot through him, and walked past it without looking in. Another showed a small golden-haired child running through the forest, a greenish rabbit at its side. Arthur felt nostalgic for it, but left it untouched as well. Still another had what looked to be a dungeon, crude markings of people strapped to walls and scrambling writing pouring from their mounts. One led just behind a busy marketplace. The smell of meat pies and baking bread tantalized them. They decided, however, that three strange men popping out from behind a cart of apples would not make for a welcome visit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think, if we go through one, we can come right back out?” Arthur asked, glancing briefly over another lion-headed king knighted yet another brave warrior. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe. If we go somewhere, someone should stay behind and keep the door, so to speak, open.” Francis suggested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll wait, if you go.” Gilbert said. “I’m not much use either way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not this again.” Francis said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, you were literally fighting </span>
  <em>
    <span>pirates</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What was I supposed to do? Look cute and innocent? No, I knew I had to stay belowdecks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We know you can fight if you want to. Don’t feel bad for yourself.” Francis said. To Arthur, it sounded like a conversation they had a million times before: the way Francis said his lines without any emphasis behind them. The way Gilbert exasperated his point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shouldn’t you be happy he’s alive and stop bickering?” Arthur asked, stopping by a particularly gruesome image. The artwork reminded Arthur of ancient greek pottery: gilded warriors raising their spears against another group of armored men. The rest of the tapestry was done in a bright, bloody red. In the center of the fighting men, a much larger man held, in profile, someone’s head. Blood dripped out as comical, big tear-drops. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert and Francis fell silent for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur…” Francis began.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Arthur asked, fingering the edge of the fabrics. Its ends were singed and fell apart at his touch. Francis and Gilbert stayed silent. “Oh I get it, this is an argument beyond what I’d understand. Deep friendships and all that… What is beyond here?” Arthur couldn’t resist. He pulled the tapestry, slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A war waged on. Screaming, clashes of metal on brass plating, the sound of bodies falling. Horses screaming in the distance. Smoke and flame rose up. To Arthur, it looked like he stood in the middle of the fray, but all around him the soldiers stabbed and tore and fought without taking notice of him. Arthur shut the tapestry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounded unpleasant.” Gilbert said. A sheen of sweat now lined his forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, keep going.” Francis whispered. The tips of his fingers had turned a pale blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their argument forgotten, they kept going. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steadily, what he saw became more and more familiar. Sky-scrapers and cars and metros. Silvery threads mingled with black ones, creating harsh modern borders. Finally Arthur came to something incredibly familiar. London. His London. All the landmarks in place, which he rambled off to Francis and Gilbert, who clearly had no clue what he was talking about, but could sense his excitement. “My house!” Arthur said, point at a tiny fleck in the distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Open... it up.” Gilbert wheezed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur pulled it back, but stopped short from putting his foot through the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something was wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything around him was shrouded in a flurry of dull white. Flecks of fluffy white fell, silent and slow. “Snow?” He asked, sticking his hand out. It didn’t feel cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Francis said, at his side. His lips were pale. “Ash.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur shut it, his heart hammering in his chest. He rushed down the rest of the hallway, seeking whatever he could find close to him. More and more, things seemed like his own world. Nothing looked like home. The few that did were different, even if ever so slightly. For instance, one smelled strongly of flowers. Some were distinctly different: one tapestry had a map of London, but completely mirrored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur reached the end of the hallway, with the big iron-clad doors. He grabbed at the handles and tugged. It remained still. Behind him, Francis caught up. Gilbert dragged his feet a few paces behind, his head bowed and his body shuddering. Francis, his eyelashes now crusted with frost, reached for the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You see it?” Arthur asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis nodded, his head stiff. “Pull.” He whispered through his teeth. So they did. Together, the big door groaned and shifted, exposing a circular room with thrones stationed around a stone table. In each seat was a cloaked figure, black in a way that was complete. Light fell in and did not come out. Arthur could not see any distinct shapes other than the barest outline, something vaguely bird-like and kind of human. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carrion?” Arthur whispered to Francis, who now leaned against the doorway, clutching his body desperately. “Are you awake?” Arthur said, falling to Francis' side. He squeezed Francis’ upper arm, feeling flesh hard and cold as ice, but the man had gone unconscious. “Oh no, oh no. Gilbert?” Gilbert had slumped against the other side, his breathing quick and his face a deep crimson. His cane had rolled away from his open palm. Touching him felt like touching a fever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Help, please,” Arthur said to no one. “Please, someone…” </span>
</p><p>
  <b>So you’ve come. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice rang out, clear and solid as a church bell. But formless. It sounded neither like a man’s nor a woman’s, but rather both at once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>They chose their hallways.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur looked around for the voice. It floated over his head and all around him. No matter where he turned, it sounded just the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, they’re dying!” </span>
</p><p>
  <b>They chose this.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean? They chose to be like this? We all went down the same pendulum.” Arthur said, going back to Francis and rubbing his hands. No matter how much friction he gave, Francis remained cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>They must have felt they deserved punishment.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?” Arthur pressed two fingers to Francis’ wrist. His veins were deep and his pulse shallow, slow.  </span>
</p><p>
  <b>For betraying you.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you know this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>I’ve been watching.”</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Yes.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“What…?” Arthur looked back at the round table. The shadowed, cloaked figures. He had seen these before. He’d seen these bodies, on the ship. He’d been clawed by them. He raised his fingers to his face, touching the healing scars. “Carrion…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Yes.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you attack?</span>
</p><p>
  <b>You attacked us. And you tried to drown us.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“You attacked first!”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>So it seems. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you?” Arthur asked desperately. Francis’ heartbeat had become fleeting at best. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>You know this. We are Carrion. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not birds. I don’t think?” Arthur asked, feeling hot tears slide down his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Why do you weep? </b>
</p><p>
  <span>A shadow fell over Arthur’s shoulders. It swept over him, consuming him, replacing the heat he lost while he tried, in vain, to revive Francis. He let himself go into it, not looking up from the purplish-blue eyelids and frost-dusted nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>To take you home. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alfred limped into the kitchen, where he had heard voices coming from only a moment before. He leaned against a cane Gilbert had given him, but it hardly made up for his missing leg. However, the kitchen was empty. A few plates were still on the table, half-eaten. It looked as though Arthur and Francis had stopped mid-meal and gone somewhere else. Odd, Alfred thought, he’d never seen either of them throw away food so easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyone home?” He called out. Really, he had only gone to rest and think. He didn’t mean to miss anything important. He limped towards the table. The bread was still warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred left the kitchen and limped towards the other rooms. One room was locked and silent behind its door. The other, a guest room with two beds, was made and tidy. Also empty. Alfred continued to an adjacent building, connected to the main one by a thin outdoor hallway. It was a steamy Roman-style bathhouse, with marble benches half-obscured by billowing clouds of steam. Its alabaster floors and benches gleamed with moisture against the slanted sunlight. It, too, was empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beyond its walls was the rest of the city, starkly contrasting Gilbert’s fine, empty home with smoke, crammed together buildings, and a cacophony of sounds. Alfred, from where he stood between the buildings, leaning on the banister, could hear all manner of sounds. Screaming children, a computerized voice blasting through speakers, announcing something in garbled Gallic, voices calling from house to house, and wheels against cobbled stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alfred?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned, finding Eliza standing on the other side of the banister. She was still wearing the raggedy pants and shirt, now crumpled with dirt and mud. A long gash was half-healed against her eyebrow. A dried stream of blood lined the side of her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eliza, ma’am, uh… Where did you go? I was looking for you.” Alfred said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he here?” She asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No one’s here. I’ve been hollerin’, too.” Alfred said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza glanced down at his leg. “I’m sorry, by the way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ain’t your fault. I’m sorry for your family, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will be well again soon.” Eliza grabbed the banister and swung herself over the side. Her feet were bare. She looked around, quiet for a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know where anyone is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The servants went out for groceries. I didn’t see anyone else leave.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those servants give me the creeps.” Alfred said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That they certainly do.” Eliza agreed. She padded down the hallway and into the main house. When they entered, it was still as before. Even the air felt stale and solid. Eliza went down the same hallway Alfred had gone down earlier, stopping at the locked door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know this Gilbert guy?” Alfred asked. “Francis said he was dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do. And I thought he was dead, too.” Eliza said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’d you run, then. If you knew him before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza placed her hand on the door handle. “Do you know what it’s like to know someone, or think you know them, very well for a long time? To think that they gave your life for you, to make you better? Yet, they treat you poorly. And because they gave you so much, you forgive them everything. Then, when they are gone, dead or otherwise, you forgive them even more? But when you see them again, or hear of them again, you remember all the wrong. All the fear. All the poor choices.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All too well, ma’am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you understand.” Eliza said, and began to chant under her breath. A simple, four-beat pattern. Over and over. The lock trembled under her grasp, resisting, before letting go. She pushed the door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your singing. It’s magic.” Alfred said, having watched her incantation in awe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone. There are no silly threads involved.” She shot him a smile. Alfred smiled back, following her into the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s…” Alfred began, looking around the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unimpressive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room was nothing but a desk, a dresser, and a bed. Everything was against a wall and there were no lights, candles, kerosene, or copper wiring. Every other room had something of the sort. Even the room Alfred was given, one adjacent to the servant’s quarters, had buzzing copper overhead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The desk had a typewriter but nothing else. Alfred approached it while Eliza flung open the dresser, rifling through clothing, shoes, and closed boxes. The typewriter had no letters on its keys, only elevated bumps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know they made something like this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t. He made it himself.” Eliza said, stopping when she lifted a box. She felt its smooth, polished outside and flipped it open. She must not have liked what she found, because she snapped it shut and tossed it back in, continuing to push through his things. “Let me know if you hear the servants.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred agreed, moving towards the open door and staring into the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” He said, “Back home anyone blind has a rough time. You can’t see the threads or anything else, for that matter. I always thought that was cruel.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is. And it isn’t different here.” Eliza paused, looking at the bottom of the lowest drawer. She felt along its base. “That’s why he has to be so vicious. He has to be better than everyone. That’s why I trusted him. It was hard for him and it was hard for me. We got along. There it is!” Eliza flipped open a panel. Inside were three scrolls of parchment, tightly bound and wrapped with a red ribbon. She tucked them all into her trousers before shoving everything else back into the dresser. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you get?” Alfred asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza shook her head, rushing into the hallway and shutting the door behind Alfred. “I’ll tell you later. I must leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’ll know I opened the door. When he gets back.” Eliza hummed something short and tried the lock. It held, as though it had never opened before. “It won’t be safe for long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why bother with all that?” Alfred asked, nodding at the lock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The servants.” Eliza said, going back into the main room and into the kitchen. “Besides, I have to save my people.” She glanced at the half-empty plates and crammed a handful of bread and cheese into her mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll come.” Alfred said. Eliza stared pointedly at his cane. “I know--but you can’t go alone. There’s, what, ten thousand of them and one of you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I swayed the girl. A little.” Eliza said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even if you did, she’s there. I bet that Ivan guy has way more sway over you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza nodded. “That’s true. What do you need for a leg?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was wonderin’ if maybe you could, uh, sing it back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Worth a shot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you need?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My brother. He made it. He has an extra set.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Across the ocean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you have it.” She turned towards the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, hold on,” Alfred said, making Eliza pause. “I can fly aeroplanes. If you can get one we can do it. And maybe it’ll help!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alfred,” Eliza said, approaching him and setting her hand on his elbow. “I know what you’re thinking. If you help me, you help yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No---”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hush. Listen. We don’t have time to go across the ocean and back to meet your brother. But, but--” She held up a finger to Alfred, to stop his protests, “There is a way you can help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grinned, “You can be bait.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I could kill him,” Natalia offered her brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan glanced at her over the top of his tea cup. The scent of chamomile filled the small room. Natalia sat at the other end of the room, tight and impatient. She watched Ivan evenly, her hands pressed together between her knees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The small one. Not Francis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? And make Francis reaffirm his belief that I somehow killed his family?” Ivan asked, setting his cup down. “And you’ve never killed anyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natalia stiffened. “I’ve killed boar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s different.” Ivan said. It felt good to speak in his native, Slavic tongue. It felt much more crisp, pronounced, meaningful than the English. Talking to his little sister, however, was not always worth the comfort. She watched him move his hands to his tea glass, to set aside the book he had been reading, to mess with the monocle. Anything. She was taut as a bowstring. Ready to please. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know that gypsy, the Mage, she told me we hurt people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She did?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She has a horrible scar across her back. She was lying. She probably did it to herself.” Natalia spoke quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably not. Probably a scar from something else. Adds to her story.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So she did make it up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Natusha, it’s not pleasant to have your magic taken away. And survival rate is not what we want it to be. But anyone who does it is willing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... like sister.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Exactly. Do you understand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes of course, my dear brother. Of course I do. I understand you better than anyone else.” Natalia was half-off her chair in excitement, on foot poised, ready to run. She almost did when someone knocked at the door. Ivan held his hand out, begging her to stay put.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a message for you, sir.” A messenger boy said, standing at the doorway nervously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bring it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy ran forwards and handed Ivan a rolled piece of parchment. A decorative cross was stamped at the center, and a golden ribbon held it together. Ivan reached into his pocket, dismissing the boy, who bolted out of the room even without a tip. Ivan watched him leave, holding a handful of coins. He frowned, setting his money next to his teacup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The message, delivered by bird probably, was written in neat, straightforward Latin. Ivan scrutinized it for a moment, smiling as he did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” Natalia asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seems the Roman magicians caught word of Francis’ experiment. He’s already on his way. In an aeroplane, nonetheless. I daresay I’m excited.” Ivan said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t that bad for us?” Natalia asked. She’d heard of the steadfast traditionalists and their strict codes on magic use. Everyone had. It was part of the reason Ivan did what he did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but worse for them. Now, let’s go prepare for our guests, shall we?” Ivan asked, slipping into Latin easily. He held the parchment for Natalia to hold on to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natalia nodded, following Ivan out the door like an obedient, silver-haired dog. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Agnus Dei</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The aeroplane was small and rickety, having been built only recently and this being its maiden voyage. Inside, however, it felt stable enough. Two chairs, upholstered and a deep brown, were screwed into the floor in the center. Circular windows on either side watched as Rome slipped away and the rest of the land -- dotted here and there with horses, cattles, carriages, green grassy slopes, trees, and pockmarked with cities -- came into focus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the chairs were the Roman twins: Feliciano and Lovino. Infamous for their talents in magic and, as a result, their tight views regarding it. But this was how it was, in Rome. It was tradition old as time. Old as Feliciano tossing his ring into the canals of Venice, wedding himself to the city and the city alone, while the Pope looked on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feliciano sipped a Spanish wine, watching as the world below them moved, like a quilt being tugged from beneath their feet. In front of him, Lovino twitched the hem of his coat, patted the rubied hilt of his small sword, clicked his heels against the hollow ground. He seemed in constant motion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long?” Lovino asked, flicking his gaze at the pilot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another hour or so.” Feliciano responded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pilot murmured his assent. A small man, from the Northern Colonies, who was the most excellent gem in Feliciano’s jewel box. For both his talents and dislike of being anywhere crowded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feliciano set his glass down on the small table, its ends curved up to prevent spillage, and cleared his throat. Lovino turned to him immediately, his brown eyes wide. “Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you so frightened?” Feliciano asked, reaching forwards to place his hand on Lovino’s knee. Lovino stopped jittering. All at once, like a turtle snapping into its shell. Feliciano pressed his thumb into the soft flesh just above Lovino’s knee, gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do we have to go and see him?” Lovino asked. Almost whining. Feliciano frowned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who else? Of course </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> have to. We have to keep order, after all, dear brother.” Feliciano purred. Lovino both loved and hated the way his brother spoke. The Latin rolled off his tongue, like a velvety cloth unfolding, or like honey dripping. It was delicious. It was terrifying. Each constant perfectly executed, his diction impeccable. If a voice could be power, it was his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feliciano’s hand lingered for a moment, before squeezing once more and releasing. “Now, let us review the Sealing Chant.” Lovino agreed, turning to face Feliciano and shutting his eyes. The “Chant” was only so by name. In practice, it was more an aria. Lofty voices, Feliciano’s rising higher and higher, never leaving the soprano. Lovino’s own voice dropped, wincing as Feliciano eyed him. If he was lucky, his hoarseness would fade and he could pass as a tenor, but no higher. On bad days he was a basso. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it was, when harmony was found, they found the hidden note. The voice of god or, more accurately, the voice of magic itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they finished, Lovino apologized, but Feliciano waved it off, again affectionately touching his brother’s sleeve. “The body has a will of its own. As it is a vessel for our music, we must adhere to it. Just do it right when we have to do it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An hour passed and, as predicted, they hovered over Paris. From above, it looked like an ugly ink stain with a bullseye of white in the center. As they drew closer, the lines between black and white became more blurry until the white was only a smudge of buildings against a stain of grey-black sludge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pilot landed his plane on the roof of a building, where a slipshod landing pad had been thrown together. The pilot sank in altitude, careful not to pop their ears, and landed gracefully. The wooden planks below croaked against the weight of the aeroplane and its vibrating engine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside, they were greeted by the tall, silver-haired Ivan and his lapdog sister. Feliciano’s eyes glazed over her, landing on Ivan instead. He approached, holding his hand out. Ivan grasped it gently, his large fingers covering the rings Feliciano wore. All manner of jade and emerald obscured by dark leather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’ve come again. I knew we couldn’t keep you away.” Ivan said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This disgusting city is the last place I like to visit,” Feliciano said, slipping into the common tongue and retaining his lilting tone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How polite. Come, now, we have work to do.” Ivan took Felicano by the shoulder, leading him down the steps, his hand then sliding to the small of Feliciano’s back, where a strap of golden fabric held his clothing together like a belt, before drifting away. Lovino and Natalia followed, silently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before they reached the end of the stairs, a breathless man with a mole on his chin confronted them. “Ivan, one of them is back! The blond one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So this is how it’ll go,” Eliza said about an hour before Feliciano arrived in Paris, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor. She had used various kitchen items to make a map before them. A plate sat in the center - denoted the heart of the city - and the salt shaker was Alfred right before it. Eliza maneuvered a fork to show her own planned movement. Alfred sat with his broken thigh out, the cane laying across his lap, enraptured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll go up the front. Knock knock, they open, they know you. Tell them you didn’t mean to escape. Or you’ve changed your ways. Whatever will make them believe you. I’ll go around, waiting for them to be absorbed with you, and sneak in. There was a servant when we left, I noticed her, she helped us through. I’ll find her again and have her bring me to my people. Maybe take her with us, if she is willing. Once I find them,” Eliza took the fork back out, from the side, “I’ll make sure everyone leaves and I’ll come back for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like a heist. Like we’re bank robbers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza nodded. “We’re precious. I think. I don’t know what they’ll do to us if they fail. If anything. I’ll give myself up. So long as you and my people are free.” She looked at Alfred, her eyes glittering and bright, filled with longing. In that moment, she no longer looked like the regal, powerful queen Alfred saw when he first met her. Now she looked so much more innocuous, a young woman lonely and missing her family. And headstrong, too. Alfred admired her. He caught her gaze and smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And when we leave? Where do we go? Should we wait for Arthur and Francis?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza shook her head. “No. I will not risk my people for them again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You risked them for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you were only a weary traveller. Not knowing what you got into.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to go. To see the adventure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you didn’t have to go back home. I’m guessing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alfred, remember what I told you? I could see how well you understood. That was not sympathy. That was empathy.” She stood and placed her hand out. Alfred grasped it, hoisting his body and cane up. “We’re notes from the same song, my brother.” She said warmly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Before we go, I meant to ask, how do you use your magic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Music. Singing. You know this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but do you, y’know, sing to the threads?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We do not need these threads. I can’t even see them, whatever they are. Music is internal. Magic is within, no matter what your English scholars say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Strange… Not to say you’re wrong, I’ve just gone my whole long life thinkin’ that the threads were the only magic in the world. That anything else was just a variation of using them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you have very little imagination.” Eliza said, her voice still warm. She squeezed Alfred’s shoulder. When standing, she could look him in the eye without bending upwards. It was an odd thing to Alfred, who had always been somewhat tall. He felt another rush of affection for this woman. She could think when confronted with her own past. And what could Alfred do? He met a man with the same mannerisms as the one he knew, long ago, and he froze up solid. Before he could collapse with shame, however, Eliza urged them to go on, before the servants returned with their twin, ambivalent creepiness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first part of the plan went about as intended. Alfred and Eliza made their steady way up the curved steps that led around the city and toward the center’s gates. It took the better of an hour before they got there, Alfred’s steps slow and heavy, and Eliza trembling with exhaustion. Once they reached the gates, Eliza stepped to the side, behind a crumbling parapet painted in the ghoulish white, and waited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The heavy doors swung open, revealing a man Alfred recognized as the musician from before. He stared at Alfred and told him to come in, before departing. His heels clicked against the ground in a mad frenzy. Alfred hadn’t even said a word and he was already inside. So much for the elaborate excuse he had come up with - that he had been grabbed into this situation had felt safest in the center (which was more or less the truth) - seemed fruitless now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred, left alone in the main entrance hall before the rising apartments and various pathways, caught sight of Eliza slipping in, pressed against the wall. However, he kept his eyes forwards as two guards, dressed all in black, approached him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered why no one was manning the front gates, except for an aged butler at the topmost balcony, holding the lever that opened and closed it. Nevertheless, Alfred made his slow, cane-stepped way through one the hallways, flanked on either side by guards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why is it so empty?” Alfred asked, hoping to keep their attention while Eliza maneuvered into a separate hallway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have a visitor.” The guard said. Alfred finally looked at him, and the other, in the face. They were broad-faced, pleasant men with easy smiles. One had a neatly trimmed beard. They both spoke English in a country Gallic accent, the words guttural and impassioned. These didn’t seem much like hardened guards to him. Maybe he could ask how they came to be here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is it?” Alfred asked instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Agnus Dei, the head of Rome.” The bearded one said. He had his hand on Alfred’s elbow a moment before, but now had let go. He talked excitedly. “I never thought I would see the man in the flesh. He’s so small, too, and very pretty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other guard grunted, “Well, you know why </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, but knowing a thing and seeing a thing are very different.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred wondered at this. The head of Rome, the Agnus Dei, was one of the world’s most powerful magicians. He didn’t use threads, like the Dancers, and instead sang. But his songs, from what Alfred had heard, were other-worldly. You did not dance when the lamb of god sang. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know why he’s here? Is he performing a sermon?” Alfred asked as they rounded a corner. Now they had left the polished white fronts of apartments and had come to the more rustic corners Alfred remembered his own rooms being like. It seemed like this giant building was a carapace built on to another. Now that Alfred wasn’t terrified for his life or running, he could actually see where the smooth, new building material hung over the older foundation. It reminded Alfred of an oil painting hastily colored over with a new, simpler portrait. Or a chimera. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, we don’t know, but he’s visiting with our boss, Mr. Ivan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred felt a slight tremor run down his spine at the name. He tried to hide it, but the bearded guard noticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need us to carry you?” He asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred blushed, “No, I’m just fine and dandy. Been a while since I used a cane, is all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a different corner of the building, Eliza began to hum. It was a low, motory sound like the purr of a contented cat. She followed a simple, swooping rhythm that cycled through each measure. It was her own wavelength, one that her Dancers knew by heart. She hoped now they would catch it and sing back. She kept her ears pricked as she walked down the hallways, her hand to the wall, feeling for vibrations. Her fingers glided across the white, smooth paint and on to more crunchy, older wallpaper. A film of dust collected at her fingertips. How odd, she thought, still humming, that a place so teeming with workers was so dusty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She heard no call back. She listened acutely for Emma’s brassy, meaningless song. She listened to Felix’s surprisingly low voice, or Toris’ bird call. And yet, nothing. She tried to calm the panic in her heart, telling herself they had not yet heard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she kept going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, before bending around a corner, she heard another voice. Her own singing caught her in her throat and stopped altogether. She could only listen, her hand still against the wall. In front of her, the hallway branched into two directions, perpendicular so she could not see down either of them from her position. Yet, the voice that came to her seemed to be from the right. Maybe the left? It was ethereal, floating above her head, a note so high and pure it was like the striking of a bell, or a bird song. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was stuck in place. Either by awe or some musical magic, she could not tell. She watched as a figure stepped from one of the hallways, mouth still open in the delightful music. Eliza wanted it to never end. She wanted it to stop. She wanted to run and stay in place, listening forever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he came forwards, she knew dimly who it was. The white, sleeveless tunic with the golden sash around the waist, accentuation the curve to hips and drop of fabric, folded and weightless at the mid-shin, exposing tanned flesh and the brown leather straps of sandals -- unmistakable. The Venetian Prince, Feliciano. The Agnus Dei.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza felt he was smaller than she had expected. And younger looking. Smooth face, a chin that had never grown hair, and one golden eye staring out, its sibling obscured by a brush of reddish-brown hair and twisted scarring: he was utterly beautiful, Eliza thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stopped singing, his red lips shutting into a lazy smile, and all at once the hold on Eliza had released. “Why are you here?” She asked, coming forwards. She felt as though a weight had slipped off of her shoulders as soon as silence fell. But, when he spoke again, she felt once more stuck in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coming for your friends, of course. I hear your people made his robes. Is that true?” He spoke so clearly his accent seemed purposeful. He had his hands crossed in front of him, exposing the rings at his fingers and the golden bracelets that decorated his wrists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did not work on that thing.” Eliza said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it seems. But your people did. They are an extension of you, aren’t they? That’s why you come headfirst into this disgusting place. To free them. I hear them singing now, do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What…?” Eliza listened. But she could not hear anything. The man approached her and held his hand out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can lead you to them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would you help me?” Eliza said, pulling her hand to her side. She had not realized it had floated forwards, without her control.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I hate them as much as you do. Both of them. Both Ivan and Francis and their blasphemous views. Why fiddle with threads when you have your own magic? Even if your magic is not pure, tainted by things you cannot control, you and I still share the same spirit of it.” Feliciano touched his throat, the flesh exposed above his neck line. “The only true magic is ours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tainted?” Eliza said, pulling away, and yet called forwards. She felt she would rip at the seams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you want to refuse, you can. But I am heading their way. I hear you have some excellent voices in your arsenal. They weep. Like puppies in a kennel, Ivan said, all night. Begging for you. Such a strong hold.” The Prince turned away and walked down the opposite hallway. Eliza watched him leave, debating to move, until he started up a new song. Something about light and gold, that made her move her legs despite her wishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She followed, down the hall, as he moved, his back straight, his hands raised at his sides as though holding sheet music. He led her down a set of stairs, which Eliza noticed were the same ones from their escape, and towards the middle of the hallway. The exact place Eliza had been. Where she had felt them, and feels them now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was here.” She whispered when Feliciano stopped singing and stood by a door. “I opened that door. It was empty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it seemed.” He said gently and pushed it open. He began towards another door, one that Eliza had thought led to a bathroom, and stopped. She started to push past him, to grab at the door, but his hand encircling her wrist, gently pushing her back. All his actions were so gentle, she thought, and yet she couldn’t struggle out of his hold even if she had wanted to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He held her still, his back against the door so she was forced to face him. He lifted his other hand and took a curl of Eliza’s now matted and muddied hair, pulling it between his fingers. He smelled like candles and wine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I led you here, and I intend to help you,” his voice so soft she had to lean in to hear. Her eyes darted to the door, back and forth, struggling against him even though all he did was touch her hair. What power did he have? Terror trickled through her veins like ice water, chilling her inside out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do I have to do for you?” She asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bella donna,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you do not have to do a thing for me. I only request your help. Since I helped you, it is only fair, isn’t it?” He asked. Eliza looked down at him. This close she had to crane her neck all the way down. Why did he feel so strong, then? Her knees felt like water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” She asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me where they are. Francis and his pet.” Feliciano said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” Eliza said truthfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Feliciano sang, somehow molding the English as though it was his own language, “Pretty lady, where are they? They were once so close to you…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t know, really.” Eliza said, struggling now desperately away from him, yet he held her there, one hand on her wrist and the other near her hair. Some mud streaked his otherwise pristine fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you don’t. Who does?” He continued to sing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one. They were gone when I came back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gilbert, Francis, Arthur.” Eliza spilled the words out. She felt like he was pulling her teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gilbert? The dead man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought he was dead, too. Drowned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stopped singing and let go of her. She stumbled back, rubbing at her wrist even though he had not held her tightly at all. He watched her evenly, his golden eye seeking something in her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You stole the truth from me.” She said, “I was telling you honestly. I don’t know. They all vanished. All at once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They did it then. They went through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, let me in.” She said. “I don’t care what happens to them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But there is someone you care about. Outside of your people. And he’s here.” Feliciano said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you read my mind?” Eliza hissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. It was only a suspicion. Thank you for confirming it.” Feliciano then left, leaving Eliza to open the door. He lingered in the hallway as she flung it open, revealing a big room with many beds along the walls, some empty, but most filled with her dancers. It looked like a hospital ward. He left, then, slipping out the doors silently. Eliza would not have noticed if he slammed the doors. She was so focused on seeing their faces, her heart felt ready to burst with joy. Tears tumbled down her cheeks, streaking the dirt and dried blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My loves.” She said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their faces turned, one by one, and the ululations were explosive. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. The Choice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Arthur heard the voice, so loud it would break his ears. He slapped his hands on his ears, falling to the ground. Around him, Francis, Ivan, and Alfred crowded, worried once again. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>We found your body, threaded one.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you please keep it down a notch?” Arthur whined aloud. Those around him looked at each other in confusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Your body, Arthur.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice seemed quieter. But only a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Return to your home.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” Arthur asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How what?” Alfred said, before his phone began to ring. He turned away, happy for an excuse to leave. Francis’ and Ivan’s attentions drifted to Alfred, away from Arthur, and when they turned back, he was gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Arthur opened his eyes again, he was seated at a stone, round table. All around him were Carrion, seated and slumped like hooded corpses, their feathered bodies so black they bent light. In front of him, at the opposite end of the table, towards a heavy set of iron doors, was Arthur’s own face staring back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, it was his real face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur felt a sudden suspension from reality. It was looking at a mirror that didn’t obey you. It was seeing yourself as if you were a ghost hovering in the room. Arthur felt desperately confused and worried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you the one?” He asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The one you switched with? Probably.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“They told me you were mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Who?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis. And Alfred.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Your Francis isn’t much to look at. Alfred, however, is the most innocent creature I have ever seen.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t know. I only took his thesis after watching one lecture.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He came back. Wanted it back. Said he didn’t have a copy of his own.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Did my secretary call?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. She wanted to ask something about a deadline. I stalled the best I could. But, I think she may try to fire you if you don’t get whatever it is in by next week. Or this week? It’s hard to remember the days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Persistent even during a metaphysical crisis, I see.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope it works out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A silence fell between them. A comfortable one, like the kind that falls between lovers or family. Nothing needed to be said, so nothing was. For a moment, Arthur felt he had found a kindred spirit. The other Arthur felt the same way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, it’s odd. This is the only time we will ever speak, I think.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It is a bit bittersweet. To see an entire lifetime of mine if I was mortal.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, indeed. Once I am dead and gone, you will remain. Sad, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Definitely.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur, feeling now was as good a time as any, took a deep breath and let the weight off his chest. “I slept with him. With Francis. A few times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You what?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that technically wrong? It’s our body. But, really, it is yours. Oh, this is dreadfully confusing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, the other Arthur paused. Then, he spoke again: </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Well, how was it?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I beg your pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You heard. Was it nice?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Ah, yes, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Was he nice?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur, he’s lonely. He’s very, very lonely. And I was too. Will you treat him better when you go back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I can try. Yours is garbage, by the way. A backstabber.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Like this, they continued for some time. Each Arthur recollected his time in the other’s world. The threaded Arthur felt sad for the other one, for going through so much misfortune and discomfort. The immortal Arthur tried not to laugh when the other one fell into the Seine. They continued to speak until the immortal Arthur recollected Francis and Gilbert, slumped in a hallway that could be the one behind him, dying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do we do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Bird? Hello, bird? Can you help?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What--”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>I have said this before. They chose their own punishment.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice echoed in the room and through their bodies. It trembled with its force. It was so many voices all at once harmonizing perfectly. It spoke to them as Athena spoke to Odysseus, favoring and wise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you be sending us home?” </span>
</p><p>
  <b>I may. But your journey does not end here. Your world is in chaos, threaded one. Three forces are acting against one another. We tried to stop you before, but you threw us into bodies of water. Terribly cold bodies of water, might I add.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am terribly sorry about that. I did think you were plotting my death. But what can I do about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Nothing. Except make a choice. The immortal one knows this. If you choose to go back, you will be in the midst of chaos. You risk tearing through the worlds and opening a door. All the magic will spill out. </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Even if we simultaneously ‘switch back’, then? Won’t it plug it all up?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>No. The damage has been done. When the threaded one went to your world, he brought with him his magic. All magic is bound to each other, whether through strings or through sound. So, you have always been connected to your world by the threads already bound to your soul.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“But, we don’t have any threads in us. Isn’t that the biggest rule of magic?” Arthur felt his body tremble, whatever body it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>A misconception Francis and Ivan proved wrong. That robe is made from Francis’ own threads. If he could get everyone to undergo the painful operation, everyone could get an article of clothing that could give them ‘magic’, so to speak. Ivan did not like this. He hates magic at its core. He wanted to get rid of it entirely, start a world anew… When they found the Northern one and took his pendulum, they conjectured that they could capsize all magic with a suction big enough. That’s how you came into it.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>They told me. These walls, these oceans and lakes between worlds are my realm. All who pass expose their souls to me. I am what lies between.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, do I go back and risk it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Yes. Or you can stay here. </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What about Francis? Won’t that just let Ivan win? And Gilbert’s involved, I’m sure.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>If you go back, Francis and Gilbert will return. Along with you. But if the threaded one goes back, he risks collapse and those two will remain here, suffering their punishment for as long as they survive.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“So either I return to my world and risk collapsing everything and destroying magic, killing two men, or Arthur returns to my world with Francis and Gilbert? Who is Gilbert, anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“A blind asshole.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It seems that the best choice is we return to opposite worlds, fix whatever we can, and find a way back. However long that may be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>No. The doors will close. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"You couldn't have mentioned that sooner? Why can't you fix it? Aren't you the god of this realm?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>This is beyond my capabilities. There is a powerful mage who will close the gates as soon as you choose. I have control of the realm, not the manmade doors. I can only monitor them.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Your fates are already interwoven, ready to be pinned into the tapestry. But you must make the choice, both of you together.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>What do you choose?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Do you go home and risk two strangers' lives, or do you switch to preserve the magic of just one world?</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur looked at himself, seeking his reflection, seeking a mutual choice. It seemed, different as they were, they came to the same conclusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They looked towards the Carrion, and spoke together for the last time. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Confluence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alfred, still flanked by guards, was left in one of the main halls. A throng of people in the center moved around, excited and talking to each other. A stage had been set up, in hopes that the Venetian Prince would perform for them. Alfred, in the back of these people, thought he saw a familiar face flicker through the crowds. It reminded him of his brother and, subsequently, of his heartbreak and broken leg. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guards, realizing they had stopped in excitement, pushed Alfred away from the crowds. Before they got very far, only into a more secluded passageway, a young man approached them. He came up just under Alfred’s chin and reminded him of a fretful, rabid dog. “Release him. I’ll deal with him.” The stranger said, his voice coarse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guards did not move for a moment before stepping away. “You’re the Venetian’s brother, aren’t you?” The bearded one said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am Lovino Vargas, Feliciano’s aide and most trusted confidante. I hope you understand the severity of disobeying me.” The man barked, seething. If Alfred had seen Feliciano, he would have noticed that Lovino looked almost exactly the same, but with slightly darker skin and both eyes in place, both an oaky brown. However, as it was. Alfred saw a young man in a sleeveless, black tunic with a red sash. The guards backed away, touching Alfred’s shoulder as they left. Alfred had a feeling they weren’t going very far. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you come to take me to Ivan?” Alfred asked, leaning against his cane. Fatigue rested in his bones like lead weights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Lovino spoke, his accent was heavy and rugged. Each constant was cradled by the uplift of a vowel. Even though his words hissed through his teeth in a furious attempt to threaten, he seemed uncertain of the language he poorly handled. “That is not for what I come -- I come to take you to my brother. You,” Lovino produced a knife from his tunic and pointed it at Alfred’s chest. The blade came to a sharp needle-point. “Address me properly. I do not take petulance. ‘Signore’ you will call me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not following.” Alfred said, watching the tip of the blade waver. Lovino’s wrist could hardly hold still. Either with fear or nerves, it was hard to say. Lovino’s jaw twitched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come.” Lovino said, dropping the subject and going behind Alfred, sticking the tip of the dagger near Alfred’s back. He gave a little push, digging the point between Alfred’s shoulder blades. He pushed him down the hallway by directing Alfred’s slow limp with his stiletto. The  cane tapped rhymically on the hardwood floors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?” Lovino asked, pointing at Alfred’s missing leg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An accident.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fall?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Someone did this to me.” Alfred said. He was finding it more and more difficult to be afraid of the smaller man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm. I give apologies.” Lovino said quietly, before stabbing Alfred again, pushing him forwards. Alfred winced as the needle tip came dangerously close to cutting through his fabric and into his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can only limp so fast, buddy, gotta slow it down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino mumbled another apology. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment later, the stiletto released from Alfred’s back and the push ceased. They had come up to a staircase leading upwards, accompanied by an iron bannister. It smelled strongly of paint and, much like everything else, did not go well with the rest of the massive building’s design. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Up.” Lovino said. Behind them came another pair of footsteps. Lovino paused, turning, as Alfred did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred felt a cold sweat break out against his body and his heart begin to race, fast, furiously against his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do to your leg?” His brother asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza and her Dancers fled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She led them, gripping Emma by the hand the tightest, towards the entrance. Once again, everyone but a sagging butler was in the center, eagerly awaiting the Agnus Dei to perform. Eliza couldn’t blame them. Even now, singing with her Dancers, her head still ringing with that angelic, trained, lofty voice. She couldn’t blame the gathering crowd. It was otherworldly. They went to the front doors, left agape, and Eliza stopped. “Run.” She told them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wavered. Their faces drawn out and worried. But unharmed. Each time Eliza saw that they were clean and intact, she sent a silent prayer of thanks to her goddesses. She wondered how they saw her, all muddied and banged up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please. I’ll come.” Eliza said, more softly. She bade most of her dancers farewell as they left, turning the corner, and running. Soon, everyone was gone but Emma, Felix, and Toris. Eliza turned to them next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re staying here.” Toris said. Emma and Felix nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza pressed her lips together. “We have to save one last person. Then we can leave. I doubt his escape will be easy, compared to this.” She gestured at the gaping door, which now began to slide shut. She tossed her eyes up to that unmovable butler. Scrutinized it. Something felt off. No, she shook her head and faced her remaining trio, that was a mystery for later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’ll probably be wherever that big man is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ivan?” Emma asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You saw him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only briefly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did he make you do? Did he hurt you?” Eliza came forwards and touched Emma’s face, cupping her cheeks softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, my queen, he did not. He put us in that little room and told us to call when we needed anything, but we were to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Eliza looked at Toris and Felix, their faces unreadable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To make clothing.” Emma said, working out the words as if they confused her. “I thought it would be like before. With the white-haired man. But, no, he only told us to make those ugly robes all those scholars wear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s odd.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you remember? He asked us that before. But, I suppose that’s before you became our queen.” Emma conjectured, “He came what, ten or so years ago? No, less than that. Do you remember, Felix?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Felix shrugged, “Hardly. I was much younger. But I remember the women were given this big blue cloth to work with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should talk elsewhere.” Eliza said, motioning for them to move. She wondered at this. So they had seen him before. Before she joined. When she was still a vagabond, living in her darkest hours. “Did he capture you back then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Emma said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But he didn’t want anything else?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Just for us to stitch a few articles of clothing from this heavy, ugly black fabric.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The same that he wears?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, now that you mention it, yes.” Emma nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza led them down the same hallway she saw Alfred escorted down. Beyond that, she had no clue where he had been taken. She hoped she would find her answer before the hallway forked off. The hallway was interrupted by an empty space, surrounded by weak pillars and exposing a mass of people gathering. Chairs were being set, a fountain was running, chatter rose up like flocking birds, and a handful of men worked on a stage. Two of them were the guards she recognized from before, the ones that had escorted Alfred down. Everyone worked like ants. Frenzied. Mesmerized. Their ecstasy reminded Eliza of her own mindless indulgence into Feliciano’s voice. She was grateful he had helped her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop, I hear someone.” Emma said, holding out an arm. They lingered, watching both the crowd and the narrow passageway before them. At the very end, Eliza saw Alfred with two other men at the foot of a staircase. One looked like Feliciano, but of darker complexion and less grace in his posture. The other was a stranger, with mousy long hair and a narrow frame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s Alfred, isn’t it?” Felix whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s he with?” Toris added, crowding next to Eliza.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he the one you want to save? Now’s our chance.” Emma said, beginning to move forwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza agreed, also beginning down that hallway. She kept her eyes on the Feliciano look-alike, and his sharp dagger glinting in the false light. He seemed confused and nervous. A sense of foreboding surrounded her. She couldn’t afford to wait--“So, he’s the one you came back for?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their small group turned to see Feliciano approaching them, walking as if on air, smiling easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad you’re all in one place, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred’s heart swelled with love at the sight of Matthew. He stumbled forwards, dropping the cane so he had to hop on his one leg, and tossed his arms around the narrow body. Matthew huffed at the sudden force, embracing Alfred back. They held still for a moment, breathing the same air for the first time in almost a year. Revelling in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you here?” Alfred asked, pulling back but still leaning on Matthew for support.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He flies the aeroplane.” Lovino said, “You are brothers?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Matthew said softly, smiling meekly at Lovino. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You work for them?” Alfred said, grasping for his cane. Lovino thrust it into his hands, fidgeting with the stiletto. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I am indebted to them. You see…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shhh!” Lovino shushed them frantically. “Upstairs. Talk later.” Lovino said, urging the two up, stabbing his little dagger into the air. Alfred and Matthew went up, Matthew helping his brother rise. “Hurry!” Lovino hissed under his breath before the chill fell on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred glanced over his shoulder and saw Lovino, frozen as a statue, watch his mirror image come forwards. “That’s him,” Matthew said, “He means it. Hurry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Is he dangerous?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More than you can know.” Matthew said back. They turned the curve of the stairs, Lovino vanishing from sight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Below, Lovino watched his brother approach. Behind him were four unknown women, one of whom was filthy, her face streaked with dried blood. Feliciano approached Lovino, glancing at the dagger. Lovino stuck it back into his robes, into the red sash at his waist. Feliciano glanced behind him, touching Lovino’s hip gently, pushing the stiletto securely into a hidden leather ring. Feliciano was close enough Lovino could smell his breath. Sweet wine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You took care of them, I see?” Feliciano said, resting the back of his fingers on Lovino’s cheek. “You did a good job, brother dearest.” His other hand trailed down Lovino’s arm, resting at the elbow gently, as if cradling a small bird. “You’ll get your rewards soon enough. Go up, with them.” Feliciano said, dismissing him. Lovino stepped away, up the stairs, but paused. He watched over his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feliciano then approached one of the women, the dirty one with eyes of fire, and touched her wrist gently. A flare of jealousy burned through Lovino. He watched as Feliciano spoke softly, in that pitch of voice that urged, making whoever he spoke “You should go up, as well.” They followed, catching up with Lovino. He saw their eyes, glossy as though with sickness. Their cheeks flushed red. Lovino chastised himself at his own jealousy. He should have felt pity.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*Emma is the name I decided to go with for Belgium. Sorry for any confusion!</p><p>Hello all! As this story draws to its end in the next few chapters, I want to thank everyone for your support and kindness. Your comments keep me going when it gets hard to keep writing. </p><p>Also, I will likely be writing a few stories about some other characters. These will be posted outside of this work as their own shorts. I'm probably going to do Gilbert's backstory (rated T), Feliciano and Lovino's stories (most certainly M rated), and possibly a few more... So, stay tuned?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. ... And Estuary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alfred looked at the spot where Arthur had vanished, his phone held from his face. On the other end, Feliciano’s merry voice was distorted with panic and fear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He says we need to meet up. Fast.” Alfred explained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis and Ivan, who were staring fish-eyed at the empty spot on the floor. They steadily came back to reality, watching as Alfred motioned for them to get up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He says it's really urgent. Like, life or death urgent. He’s gathering Matt, Eliza, Emma, Gil, Lovi, everyone. He wants everyone to be at the meeting hall. Where do we go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s one near here.” Francis said, speaking slowly, watching the emptiness as if, at any moment, Arthur would come back. “It would make sense. We’re a big group and close by.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feli--yeah you heard that?” Alfred said into the cellphone, shouting to make himself heard. “Yeah, ok, don’t cry. Relax. We’ll meet up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Arthur’s gone. How did you know that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a feeling… Ok.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis grabbed their coats and parselled them out, mentioning that the weather had called for rain earlier. He seemed lost in thought. He handed Ivan his light jacket, his fingers brushing against the other’s skin. A sudden rage filled him, bubbling up, fizzing out, frothing. Francis gritted his teeth, rounding at Ivan, who looked at him with just as much venom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, guys?” Alfred ventured stepping between them. He held his hands out, touching both their chests, as if he would keep them back. He felt like he had stepped between two growling dogs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis launched himself at Ivan, knocking him over and pinning him against the ground. He straddled the bigger man’s chest, pressed his forearm against the exposed throat and his other arm grabbing at fabric. His eyes were wild with fever. Ivan struggled against him, scratching at Francis’ arm. Their jackets were against the floor. Alfred tugged at Francis’ shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Snap out of it! What the hell?” Alfred struggled, digging his fingers into Francis’ collar. He managed to yank him off, exposing Ivan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the anger drained out of them, all at once. Francis stood panting, watching Ivan in horror. Ivan watched back, rubbing at his throat and chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what happened.” Francis managed pathetically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s just go.” Ivan shouldered past him, slipping on his shoes. He kept his eyes averted, still rubbing at his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred warily kept his eyes on them, wishing Arthur would just re-materialize already. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a few hours for everyone to gather in the highest meeting hall, close to the center of the city. Francis, Ivan, and Alfred -- sitting far apart -- were the first ones to go in. When they had entered the building and given their names, a secretary urgently ushered them into the lofty room high above. Once she had, she wished them luck. Amongst themselves, they wondered if she thought they were discussing something of huge world importance. Or if they were getting fired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next, Matthew and Gilbert came in. Matthew smiled shyly at Francis before sitting next to Alfred, grinning at his brother. Gilbert chewed noisily on something wrapped in greasy wrapping paper, plopping himself next to Francis and nudging him with his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s this about? I thought lil’ Feli was gonna make me deaf with all his screaming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought the same thing, too.” Francis agreed, folding his arms against his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Following them were Eliza, Emma, Toris, Felix, and Natalia, all chatting eagerly amongst themselves. Feliciano and Lovino were the last to arrive, despite Feliciano’s hysteria. Eliza took a seat near Ivan. Her hair was done in a lovely braid, pinned with flowers where each strand of hair joined the rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any idea what this is?” Eliza asked. Emma, next to her, looked around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not everyone is here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it sounded like Feli wanted someone specific, didn’t you sweetie?” Eliza as Feliciano, who was busy accounting for everyone in the room. His face was flushed and his buttoned-up shirt undone. It looked as though he had hastily slapped himself together before dashing madly for whatever plane he could catch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By now, a steady rain had started outside. Rain drops slid against the broad windows, veiling a gloomy sky. The city continued to move and bustle. Someone had ordered coffee, brought in by an assistant who either took no notice or simply didn’t care about the manic energy filling the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis enjoyed the way the smell of coffee and rain mingled. It felt cozy in all other situations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone is here?” Feliciano asked, meeting everyone’s faces. “Ok, good, because something is about to happen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, of course, it did. Because, in that moment, the doors flung open. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Together</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Before, they stood in one of the highest rooms at the center of Paris. Alfred leaned against his brother for support, looking at him affectionately, trying to mop up all the details of their lives, while Matthew tried to shush him. Ivan watched these people trickle in, Feliciano, the Heaven’s Mages remaining four, and Feliciano’s twitchy brother. Natalia stood behind them, watching eagerly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They are all here. What now?” She whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We wait.” Ivan said, touching her hand gently. She tensed at his touch. He turned to Feliciano, who smiled warmly at his gaze. “I trust you began everything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Feliciano grinned. “Now we--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The switch was so sudden, so fast, so painful that - for a moment - it seemed that electricity ran through their bodies. And then, it was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Creeping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Listening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wanting to know what had happened. Eyes darted around the room, the dingy room with its dusty velvet drapes and its open windows and its sweet-smelling teas. Then at each other - recognizable but not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck happened to my leg?” Alfred suddenly screamed, collapsing when he had let go of Matthew. He scrambled up. “What happened to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthew, at his side, touched his long hair curiously. His glasses felt different too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so dirty!” Eliza cried out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m in a dress?” Felix asked, picking at the lovely multi-colored fabrics. “And it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fab</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feli? What happened?” Ivan asked, looking at what he thought was Feliciano.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feliciano turned to him, his tanned face flush. He had his arms extended, long and slender, and was looking at them curiously. His hair fell slightly over one of his eyes, hiding it. When he spoke, his voice was a different pitch. A lovely one. “I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A world away, another Feliciano clutched at his throat in anger. He had begun to speak, but the voice that fell from his mouth disgusted him. He scowled in anger, glowering at all these semi-strangers around him, at the rain slipping down the window, at the steaming cups of false coffee. He couldn’t speak. He wouldn’t dare. His body was a new nightmare to him. He refused to look down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This… This isn’t our world.” Ivan said evenly, looking out the window. A different Paris sprawled beneath him. Vehicles, more advanced than anything he had seen, crawled below like ants. A warm wind blew from somewhere. And, most oddly, the lights did not flicker here. He looked around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes landed to his side and stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The confusion frothed and bubbled in the room. Everyone eyed the other, marvelling at the new appearances. Lovino, for one, seemed utterly at peace. Whereas Felix was exclaiming his disgust with the simple jeans and t-shirt, though to him they looked like ratty tatters pinned to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone is here at least.” Eliza said, plucking flowers out of her hair and examining them. Little yellow flowers. Daisies? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes…” Ivan said, looking at the limp body of Francis slumped against the desk. At a Gilbert who looked like he had blacked out while eating. He was sprawled on the floor, a greasy piece of wax paper crumpled in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza stood and approached him, poking at the limp hand with her shoe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s out? He’s dead?” She asked. Her face flashed with something like triumph, and then suddenly terror when the hand grasped around her ankle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feliciano nervously plucked at a curl of hair, looking around him. His eyes landed on Gilbert, who stood near the door, next to Francis. Feliciano wondered why he hadn’t noticed them earlier. He called over to them, his voice sounded so high to his ears. So wild. He didn’t know if he could control it. When he tried to, he realized he simply could not go to a lower register. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gilbert?” Feliciano tried. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Feli, is that you?” Gilbert turned around, squinting his eyes. “Where are we? It’s like I’m under water. Can you see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Everyone chimed in, crowding around Gilbert in worry. They came close, but an unwieldy fear surrounded him. His strange black frock coat, the cane gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes seeking around the room, finding nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis touched Gilbert gently, at shoulder and elbow. “It’s OK, let’s sit down.” He said gently. His chin perked up, scanning the room. When he found everyone, almost everyone, there he settled to helping Gilbert sit on a dusty chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It looks like we’re in an abandoned house.” Alfred said, having risen to a wobble stand. He gripped the cane too tightly, causing it to teeter against his weight. He settled for resting a shoulder against the wall, refusing Matthew’s help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We might be.” Francis agreed, “But we have to be high up. You can’t see the ground from the window.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ech,” Eliza said, peering down. “What an ugly place we’re in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur did mention that his Paris was particularly terrible.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What makes you think this is Paris?” Alfred asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis thought for a moment, resting his hand on the back of Gilbert’s chair. His nails were blackened, the joints above it a pale blue. He wore strange clothing, like everyone else, which to them appeared distinctly old-fashioned and out of style. Francis’ hair was longer, too. Everyone seemed to have such subtle changes. The thought spread through them in murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re in the other world.” Alfred said finally. “Well, we did it? Yay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But without Arthur.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do we do now?” Someone said, before all attention fell to Feliciano. “Did you know?” Ivan asked quietly. He was glancing his own body over. It felt similar enough. But so cloaked in black. He missed his overcoat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I knew we had to meet.” Feliciano whispered, terrified of this power. Terrified of how even speaking sounded like a lovely aria. He suspected what had happened to him, but he didn’t dare look at the thought to close. He fiddled with the golden sash at his waist. Near him, Lovino in his own black tunic and red sash, had his lips pressed shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feliciano spoke again, this time louder. Lovino flinched when Feliciano fully raised his head, having caught sight of that wretched eye. The eye that was a pitfall, a trap, a brutal scar. “He told me we had to. Or something terrible would happen. I didn’t know. I really didn’t.” Tears began to spill down one cheek. “I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Feli,” Eliza cooed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, don’t be sad. We can do this.” Gilbert added.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what do we do?” Natalia muttered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voices rose up in a clammer, flocking birds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliza fell backwards when Gilbert awoke. He stood above her, grinning wildly. “I can see you just fine. Oh, Eliza, this version of you is so much nicer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back off,” Francis hissed, raising his own head. He blinked blearily. Ivan turned to him, standing immediately. He reached for a pen, holding it like a knife. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re alive. Where did you even go?” Ivan snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, where did I go?” Francis said, rising to a stand. He seemed unfazed by the new attire and new surroundings. “Wouldn’t you like to know? So what, you can kill all my friends next?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never killed anyone.” Ivan said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eliza took the chance of commotion to get as far away from Gilbert as she could. Gilbert watched her, watched Ivan, Francis, everyone, greedily. Soaking up the world full of clarity. Eating up every color, every shape, every line. His attention was focused on everything and yet nothing. He brought his fingers to his eyes, touching at his cheekbone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you keep lying to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’d you lie to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b> You have to settle this here. Quickly. It's the only chance you have.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice surrounded them, enclosed them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So familiar, and yet not. So close to what they had heard recently, the soft British accent, the quiet intonation. The same voice Francis had heard so much for the past few days. Had it really been days? It felt like weeks. Months. But, no, this was different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This voice, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>Arthur. The original. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>You have no magic here, dearie. You and Ivan can’t kill each other by any other means than brute force. Also, please don’t do that. Why harm bodies that aren’t yours?</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want us to just talk it out?” Francis sneered.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>That would be nice. You were friends before, weren’t you?</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Before he killed everyone that was dear to me.” Francis turned back to Ivan, who stared at him wide-eyed. Francis wondered if he was going insane. If the voice that resonated so loud, so calmly, so ethereal, was all just in his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Did he?</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis remembered it clear as day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered coming back from his last ship voyage, sun-tanned and smelling of brine. He remembered taking a carriage to his desecrated, ruined city, directly into his heart. He remembered stepping into the mansion, articulate and grand. In those days, the capital was a hot spot for artists and sculptors. They decorated the long steps spilling out from the front doors, where now there was nothing but a steep cliff, with all manners of gods. Animal-heads and complete human forms. He remembered returning home, wanting desperately to see his mother, and pausing the front gates, where lonesome Aphrodite stood, her blind marble eyes facing the sky. Her nose had been chipped off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He touched it, wondering what had happened, before turning back through the doors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mansion was shaped like a square, building on all sides with rooms, much like the Ottoman empire, but decorated with all manner of exquisite and baroque designs. In the center was an open garden, soon to be demolished and replaced with a parler and foyer, but in that moment only housed foliage and a glittering fountain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was lovely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was huge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was excessive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Francis had been a child, running through the big corridors away from his maids and playing with other boys, he had not noticed that he lived such a different life from all those around him. When he peered through his window late at night, glancing at the black sludge of the slums, he didn’t notice the bedraggled people crawling like termites. He noticed the stars above. The glittering night sky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he grew older, and especially after sailing with his two closest friends, one of them he now presumed dead, he realized how cruel this schism was. This buzzed in his ears as he crept up the steps, glancing at various chipped or broken statues. Ra lay shattered the ground, animal eyes watching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a while, Ivan had talked his ear off about just getting magic out of the world. Opening a theoretical void. Making everyone equal, once again. Francis had considered it, but then thought about how useful it was. How else would they erect such big buildings? How else would the man engines? How else would they find alchemical cures for sickness? No, magic was too useful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, they had made the robe. Then, the pendulum. Francis had gone on various ship cruises while Ivan did his own business in his own country. When Francis returned, he would watch the pendulum and slip in notes periodically, before going off again. To maintain their little experiment, for what it was worth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis thought these two things could work together. Maybe give everyone the opportunity. He knew how to make clothing contain magic. He knew where to find it. How did he put it together, though? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of that mattered, anyway, because when Francis stepped into the garden, his vision went red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sight of a massacre. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Guernica alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, in the centre, a shivering Ivan holding out his bloodied hands. Francis knew what he had to do. He ran up and up the stairs, where that pendulum hung.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw him.” Francis finally said. The memory like hot tar in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan shook his head slowly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You betrayed me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Did he?</b>
  <span> Arthur’s voice asked, once again, coming from somewhere. It sounded weaker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan remembered that day just as clearly. He remembered that he had returned from his home country, gathering the last of his possessions and collecting his family. He had Natalia coming on a separate train later that day, once she settled the house and farm land. His other sister was studying at an institute and could come soon enough, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed cheerful enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan was coming back to Paris to meet up with his research partner. They had not seen each other for a year or so, all the while Francis had letters slipped in through the portal. Testing their theory, continuously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paris was nice. Even the dreaded surroundings were a sound reminder for Ivan, to never forget who he was. Who he had been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never forget that as soon as word got out that Ivan could see the threads, </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>came for his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan clambered up the steps, moments before Francis would arrive. The sculptures, nice to look at but just another reminder of frivolity and waste, didn’t catch Ivan’s attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doors were unmanned. This caught him. Why…? He wondered, shoving the heavy doors open, and seeing the red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing a woman who he knew was Francis’ mother, barely breathing, bloodied and ruined. He ran for her, reaching down to touch her face and body, trying to lift her to safety, but unsure if this was the right course of action. When he saw Francis come in, paling at the sight of him, he wanted to beg for help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Francis ran.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, why did he run?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You never listened to me, you rich fuck.” Ivan said, calmly, evenly. He looked down at hands that were his and weren’t his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I came back to agree with you. You have no clue what I saw out on the seas. I wanted to help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yet you ran.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To end this stupid thing. Because I saw what it came to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You saw nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred tried to come between them, limping even though his leg was perfectly intact, he held his hands out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, agree to disagree.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan and Francis turned to Alfred. “Why?” They said in bitter unison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred smiled weakly. His face seemed so strong here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t survive in this world. All of us at once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know that?” Francis asked, “Arthur survived.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he, though? Where is he?” Alfred sounded more distant. Behind him, everyone had sat down on a chair or on the floor. Like they were tired. Like they had run miles and miles, without food or drink, only to collapse.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>I thought we’d have more time. Oh, dear… Listen closely, everyone.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The rain continued to splatter the windows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, the voice that spoke so distantly, had a more harsher intonation. Less gentle than the voice they had gotten used to in the past few days. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Right, then. You all are here. Listen to me closely. I am going to have you sit in a circle. Yes, just like when you were in primary school. In this exact order. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why is this world so different?” Matthew asked quietly, listening as Arthur told them where to sit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right? How did the timelines diverge so much.” Alfred responded, sitting next to him. He did feel childish, but it was wonderful to sit and recline his leg. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Magic happened. What a cruel joke. No, other way Alfred, you bumbling idiot. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can you even see me? You don’t have eyes.” Alfred said, crawling to the other side of Matthew. He flicked Matthew’s pony tail on the way, liking the way the tawny curls spilled down his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>You have to be in the same place at the same time. Doing approximately the same thing. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“We talked about this. Did the other Arthur tell you?” Alfred asked. Everyone else looked on, unhappy but complying. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Yes.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“What will happen to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Don’t worry about us. Me? Don’t worry, when everything is in place, you’ll know. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s like aligning a beam of light.” Ivan said, “Through a prism, separating it all back out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Alfred poked at his clockwork leg, mesmerised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re setting everything into focus, so it all comes out right. Separate.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will we forget all this?” Matthew asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>I don’t know, Matthew dear. I really don’t. </b>
  
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong with everyone?” Francis asked, sitting around the table as he was told.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>You really think mortal minds can handle an immortal body?</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did.” </span>
</p><p>
  <b>For a while, yes. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again that jerk, the twist, the cutting. The return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back into their original bodies, Ivan and Francis glowered at each other, but said nothing. This was not over, not yet. Francis thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur’s not here.” Alfred’s quiet voice overcame his thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur?” Francis asked, hoping for that effervescent voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And was greeted only by silence. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Epilogue the First</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Somewhere, in a building in London, a secretary was on the phone with another client. She tapped her pen aggressively against her desk. She listened as this new author, a PhD in history, begged for her to give his magnum opus a second chance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Remove all the bits where you insist that women were the downfall of history, and perhaps I will consider it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh come on! You can’t be serious.” The voice whined over the phone. “It’s my selling point. Obviously a woman cannot understand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The secretary rubbed her forehead. Everything was terrible and just getting worse. She lost her biggest client months ago. She expected as much, seeing as how odd he had acted over their last phone call, and the fact she never got the manuscript. The building was terrible, too. The water from the cooler tasted like socks, there was a broken vent somewhere that smelled like fish, the only ladies’ room in the building was out of order, and, to top it all off, she had to deal with the most insufferable client. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You cannot compare every female figure to Eve. It’s simply not true.” The secretary tried for the last time. This guy had some decent stuff she could pick apart and give to a better writer, but this man’s father promised to pay her a lovely fee. She had to at least try, right? Even if it meant listening to his tangents and reading long paragraphs describing just how perky this character was and just how she, somehow, led to a civil war. She ran a hand through her hair. Once livid, bright red, now a dull copper tone. Washed through, kind of orange. In her hay-day she was a real catch, she insisted, but who was there to listen?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. She turned towards it, “Come in.” Before she could see who had come in, quiet steps, a hefty manuscript fell on her desk, upsetting her pens and sticky notes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked up and gasped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A soft smile greeted her. Wheat blond hair. The barest smattering of freckles. That kind voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was livid. She hung up on the client - to hell with him and his rich daddy! - and looked through the papers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This was due five months ago!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know, but give it a shot, at least?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scowled, flipping to the first few pages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was different. This was better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should charge you for the worry. I really thought you died. I called your, er, boyfriend? I’m not sure what he is to you, but as far as he was concerned you were good as dead. Don’t do this to me, you absolute, insufferable, and excellent historian.” She trailed off, absorbed in the pages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think?” Arthur asked after a few more pages were flipped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll do.” She said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you follow the next deadlines for final drafts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, but--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And never do this to me again.” She smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Arthur said at last, before turning to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She watched him go, smiling despite herself. He shut the door gently behind him. He seemed to move more easily these days. She wondered if he went on a five month booze cruise, as they say, or maybe just a long recluse hiatus. Some strange authors did that. Well, whatever he did, legal or not, she was certainly better off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe things would be even better. Maybe they’ll fix the vent, at least. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Epilogue the Last</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Arthur sat with Fen, running his hand through the soft, delightful fur. He sat alone in a quiet forest. A creek babbled. The emerald leaves shifted in the sunlight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So there was a third option after all,” Fen said, nuzzling Arthur’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More like a one point five option, love.” Arthur said, leaning against a great oak. Squirrels chittered somewhere. “We both didn’t get to go home afterall.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sat in silence for some time, enjoying the gentle warmth and the sky overhead. Great, pillowing plumes of clouds rolled across the sky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur stepped through the tapestry the other one had chosen for him, feeling it was right for some reason, a few months prior. When he landed in the lovely, lush forest, he caught sight of a red-haired woman for the first time in a long time. In her arms, she held Fen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Arthur considered this. For the past few months Arthur had been allowed to ditz around in the forest. He’d been given a cottage by his mother to tend to, not far from where he rested now. With it came the brutal, rewarding responsibility of tending to it. Chop some wood, which caused every muscle in his body to burn. Pluck root vegetables from the ground, a terribly muddy endeavor, and even learn how to hunt for game. His mother demonstrated these things in her brief, harsh way, before vanishing yet again. It seemed so peaceful, so nice, when Arthur found rhythm in routine. Yet, his mother always seemed on edge. Flitting in and out of the cottage, hardly giving Arthur much of a glance except to size him up. But, this was manageable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As far as Arthur knew, the forest was the only thing in this world. It seemed he was in a bubble of peace. Maybe he really was home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard a rustling behind him, causing Fen to leap from his lap. A flash of red hair came through the tree trunks, before appearing before him. His mother looked down at him severely, her claymore ever in her hands. The hilt was a fine wood, embellished with little golden celtic knots and ringlets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re back. From wherever you’ve been.” Arthur said, trying to sound unsurprised. He’d asked her numerous times before where she had gone. Alfred, in a world far away, had once joked that she went to get cigarettes and never came back. At that time, and even now, Arthur hadn’t a clue what was funny about that. He brushed those thoughts away as his mother began to smile warmly for the first time since his arrival. Fen purred in his lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She drew out her claymore and held it towards him, hilt first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome home.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you again for all your kind words and support. </p><p>The story is done! But is it, though? </p><p>As I've mentioned before, I have a few more stories I'll tag on to this in a series I've called "The Others". Some will have different ratings from this one and I want them to be standalone pieces as well. I've learned quite a bit from writing this story, and I hope that I can write better, stronger stories in the future. </p><p>Maybe you'll even see more of both Arthurs . . .</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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